Emperor
by Marquis Black
Summary: Some men live their whole lives at peace and are content. Others are born with an unquenchable fire and change the world forever. Inspired by the rise of Napoleon, Augustus, Nobunaga, and T'sao T'sao. Very AU.
1. Prologue: Imperial Eagle Victorious

_AN: Not bothering with a disclaimer. It's on my profile page. Please note that this chapter's length is not indicative of future lengths-that's why it's a prologue._

_But before we do start, I just wish to give credit to Minstrel Knight, whose work, "Tyrant," is the prime influence for this story. I only hope that this story can live up to its spiritual predecessor._

_EDIT: Please note that this story follows a non-linear timeline. This chapter is the **prologue**, but could also pass off as the epilogue. Subsequent chapters will deal with the events that led to this chapter.  
_

_EDIT August 27, 2012: As stated in **Chapter XIX: A Question of Loyalty**, I've edited this chapter to reflect a broadening of the story's time frame._

_EDIT July 20, 2013: As stated in **Chapter XXXV: Midnight**, I've edited out the date until the story actually gets to this point. I'm kinda tired of having to keep going back to fix it._

* * *

_Edinburgh, August 20XX_

The night sky loomed over the Scottish city, its darkness seemingly encompassing all. Yet, amidst the streets of Edinburgh, fiery torches ran through the middle, illuminating figures marching in uniform step, their silent faces shadowed by the brims of their metallic helmets.

And soon, Edinburgh was no longer in the dark, but awash in flame as the uniformed figures made their way through the city, unrelenting, pitiless, and silent but for the sound of their boots hitting the stone and concrete ground.

The city was in ruins, there was nothing that could be done about that. This once glorious testament to Scottish and British engineering and prosperity now played the part of graveyard as the tides of war brought it to its knees.

The figures stopped at several intervals, their fiery torches serving to light the way as they moved to occupy the buildings to their sides. They required rest, for the next day would bring more blood, misery, and steel.

The sight at Holyrood Palace was different. A veritable mob of fire-lit figures had assembled before it, cheering and chanting as the eight-pointed star over the Union Jack was raised from the mast. Across the street, an even greater mob had assembled before the Parliament, symbol of their great hatred towards their Albion enemies, and eagerly awaited the sign.

None were aware of the woman in Holyrood Palace, who diligently began to chronicle the events that had led them to this great day.

Scratching feverishly, a pen streaked its way across the dull, brownish paper of the weathered diary, the author's thoughts taking material form in the form of letters and words.

_Some men…live simple lives. They sleep, they eat, they breed, they love, they work, and then, at the end of the day, they sleep once more._

_Others, however, possess a fire within them that threatens to engulf the whole world._

_I do not claim to understand when it was that the fire within our Emperor first burned—perhaps he had always had it, destined from birth to change the world around him to his image; to crush his enemies in the earth, the mud, and snow. _

_But even destiny can use a little help…_

_Or even, perhaps, a war._

_The so-called New Order had fallen in a tide of blood and misery. Reddish liquid streaked the cobblestones and cement roads of London and most of the English countryside as the nation tore itself apart at the seams. It was a time of chaos._

_A time…of opportunity._

_For the first time in what seemed like ages, class and social standing mattered no more as the very order of society fell into disarray, its leaders dead and rotting. A man, or woman, at last, could be whatever he wished, if only he could weather the storm! A soldier could become a noble! A peasant, a king!_

_But to understand our times, we must never forget our past._

_Yes, we must never forget the past that our Emperor, our glorious leader, has led us out of._

_Decades of war had ravaged Europe and the world. By the end of the forties, Europe had pulled the world into two global wars that left millions dead. In the decades that followed, wars raged on every continent, in a seemingly unstoppable wave of violence and hatred based no more on race, but on thought. _

_But then, in 1991, everything changed as the Soviet Union fell, and peace, however brief, was had._

_To our great misfortune, however, peace was too late. The peoples of the world had seen so much death, had dealt it too often to be able to carry on normally in a time of peace. Paranoia was still endemic, and conflict seemed to bring out an instinctual need to inflict violence rather than demand for reasonable compromise._

_In France, hatred for the crimes of the Germans fuelled such distrust that neither side could tolerate each other well enough for constructive negotiations._

_In Italy, the ravages of war left the nation broken-spirited and shamed for having supported the fascist Mussolini, even if it was decades ago._

_In Russia, once a global superpower, the collapse of its nation in 1991 drew the large country into a severe economic downturn, the likes of which no other country has ever seen._

_In Spain, the flames of war were fanned higher still as the vile Franco was killed and democracy restored, only to find out that Franco's successors were much more persuasive than he was._

_It was not a question of whether there would be war or not, but when._

_Our Emperor put a stop to all that. But then, he is the Emperor, and he is mighty._

_Perhaps it would serve best, then, if I were to chronicle that great man's achievements. I, who have stood at his side for most of his life…I understand him; or, at least, as much as any person can truly understand another human being. I have served my Emperor faithfully, and he has rewarded me with his trust, and thus the story of his life—one of the most cherished possessions I can claim._

_For, as the Emperor himself has said, "those who possess knowledge of the past understand the flow of the present." An apt statement that is to be expected of a graduate in History from Oxford University._

_Allow me to start from the beginning, then…_

The author stopped her writing, looking up as the doors to the room were pushed open by soldiers on the other side, and quickly got to her feet and saluted as the object of her admiration came into view. She was not alone in the act, as every other officer in the room nearly fell over themselves trying to show as much respect as was due to the great man they followed.

The Emperor, a mere man of average height, jade eyes, and raven-coloured hair with few streaks of grey, was by no means an imposing figure in terms of physical intimidation. But why should he be so? What purpose would it serve for this man to intimidate his subordinates, who followed him out of adoration and respect? Intimidation was the tool of the tyrant, not the enlightened monarch.

This did not mean they did not fear his wrath—for all creatures who treaded the world did. What they did not fear, however, was the threat of him arbitrarily punishing them for misdeeds that were not theirs. He was a fair man, they knew, and thus they trusted him with their lives.

The Emperor's every step into the room seemed to go in tandem with a heartbeat, his jade eyes sweeping over the room, taking in all the sights of the redecorated room, where his enemies would have once congregated and debated how best to defeat him. A sly smile made its way on his face at the thought.

In the middle of the room, he stopped his trek, still capturing the attention of everyone in the room—none of them unimportant people, all of them officers in their own right.

Invitingly, he lifted his arms to his sides. "My friends; please, sit."

Given permission, the officers did so, as though it were an order. Only those who could not find chairs remained standing.

"We are, at last, on the last great leg of our journey of nearly a decade in the making," he spoke with clear eloquence. "For seven years, we have practically fought non-stop as our enemies lined up for a chance to take us down…but here we are, and here they are not."

"Our enemies are many," he continued, before a sly smirk graced his features. "But our equals are none. Who remembers when, beneath the olive trees and in the vineyards they said, _Spain_ could not be humbled?"

The crowd of officers tittered around the author, and she herself had to hide her mouth behind her gloved hand to hide her smile.

"Who remembers when, in their gilded halls and coffee shops, that _France_ could not be tamed?"

The titter grew louder, and the author nearly slapped herself when a giggle made it through her treacherous mouth. Everyone was trying so hard to appear disciplined before the Emperor, but the memories he was eliciting, combined with the irony of their situation, made it hard to repress the humour.

The Emperor did not seem oblivious to this, and the smirk grew to a sly smile. "And who among us here, remembers when, in their halls of steel and glass, they said, Europe could not be conquered?" He watched as the titter died out, the grim and proud reality of what they had achieved now foremost in their minds.

The author felt her own chest swell with pride, her blue, gala officer uniform pressing against her breasts, as the uniforms were not made for such movement. But what cared she if her least noticeable assets were so enhanced? None in the room would be able to tell, so absorbed were they in the Emperor's speech.

"Now?" the Emperor mused. "Now, they say nothing. They fear us, my friends—_fear us_ as a force of nature; dealers in thunder, death, and misery! No enemy that has stood before us has ever remained intact, and no enemy we have taken in has ever remained broken!" he raised a clenched fist before his face, the line of sight resulting in the fist coming between the Emperor and his view of the Parliament building outside. It was an apt gesture.

"They say I am a monster…a dictator hiding underneath the skin of a liberator," he then said, his eyes becoming sorrowful and eliciting muted cries of outrage from the author and her surrounding colleagues. Their desire to comfort their leader was quickly brushed aside, however, as they then became filled with burning determination. "But I say they are misguided! I say _they_ are the ones who are blind! I say…"

His arms spread once more, as though presenting himself to a theatre audience. The gesture and the cliffhanger left the author breathless. Slowly, the Emperor made his way to the balcony, the officers in the room slowly crowding behind him as he gazed down at the cheering masses of his soldiers, their very appearance by the firelight frightening to behold.

"…I…am Henry. _I. Am. EMPEROR._"

The announcement needed no enhancement to be heard by anyone in the immediate vicinity. The deafening cheers were enough to tell the author that all present had heard it. She was, herself, clapping thunderously, her hands hurting from the strength of each clap, but she did not care. This was the Emperor: the man who had brought Europe to its knees and then rebuilt it stronger than ever before.

Then, with deliberate slowness, the Emperor raised a finger and pointed towards the Parliament building across the street. Two words left his mouth then, resonating with power and a demand for obedience. He needn't have bothered—the cheers afterwards belied the enthusiasm of his troops to follow the order.

"_Burn it._"

* * *

_**Post-AN**: To ensure maximum understanding of the political situation at the beginning of "Emperor," allow me to outline a few changes in human history that are relevant to the development of the geopolitical situation in this story._

_1. After World War II, the European Coal and Steel Community (ECSC) was never formed in 1952 owing to the failure of Robert Schuman and his colleagues in convincing the French government to cooperate with the Germans. As a result, neither Luxembourg, Belgium, nor Holland attempted to form the covenant with West Germany in order to not piss off their French neighbours._

_2. As a result of the failure of the ECSC to form, the European Communities were not formed either, and the Western, democratic world was kept in check primarily due to American pressure on its allies to behave. _

_3. In Spain, the government of Francisco Franco was toppled a good ten years before it did in real life, via the assassination of Franco and the rapid democratization of the state with the help of American and British armed forces. As a result of these foreign presences, a massive backlash in ultranationalism erupted throughout the state, though for the rest of the Cold War, these did not even attempt to get into power, merely bidding their time and spreading their propaganda._

_4. Italy, having never been part of the ECSC, took a lot longer to recover from World War II, as did Germany. As a result, France is the dominant industrial and economic power at the fall of the Soviet Union, but neither Germany nor Italy possess good relations with France._

_5. The loss of India in 1947 and the subsequent decolonization movements around the world left Britain vastly underpowered, and as a result of the failure of the European integration systems to form, it has bullheadedly pushed itself back onto its feet via a mix of planned capitalism and socialism (ala India's Five-Year Plans). Furthermore, with Europe still so harshly divided, it was rebuilt its military force such that when Argentina tried to invade the Falklands in the 1980s, it wasn't even necessary to send a fleet, as the standing garrison and fleet had been buffed up so much that the Argentine forces failed to overwhelm them._

_6. As a result of British militarization, Northern Ireland is little more than a military state at this point, and the IRA have failed to hurt the British much in what today would be the remarkably effective "Irish Troubles."_

_Hope the overview helps a bit. Look forward to the next chapter!_

_PS: If it's not clear yet, Henry = Harry._

_As always, review!_

_-MB  
_


	2. Chapter I: Those Peaceful, Sunlit Days

**AN**: Standard disclaimer crap applies as stated on my profile page. Other than that, please enjoy the first mega-chapter of Emperor! After-notes are, as always at the bottom.

* * *

**United Kingdom, August 10****th****, 1980…**

The sound of flesh hitting wood resonated within the room that served as the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, thoroughly shocking the occupants therein.

Up to now, the audience in the room had been patiently listening to the briefing their leader, Albus Dumbledore, had been giving them on the Order of the Phoenix's agenda for the next few weeks. It was, all things considered, a rather banal occurrence, and yet the moment that Dumbledore hit the topic of secluding the Longbottoms and Potters into secure, hidden safe-houses, James Potter had protested, but with such force that many wondered whether or not there was more to this move than the venerable mage had told them about.

"Are you kidding me, Dumbledore?" asked James through grit teeth. "First, you _dare_ drop that…that…_bomb_ on Lily and I moments after our son is born, and now _this_?"

Dumbledore's gaze was impassive, as was his tone. "I appreciate that you did not reveal more than you should have, James," the older man said evenly. "But this is not the time to put yourself above the public interest."

"Screw the public interest!" James all but screamed, once again shocking the people around him, some of which had even taught him in his youth, and others had been his co-students. "Just let me take Lily and Harry out of the country like we suggested and we'll be safer than in some safe-house!"

Dumbledore's eyes had a strange, hard glint in them that did not sit well with James. "And who will protect you if no one knows where you are?" he asked right back. "Do you think the enemy will cease looking for you? Do you really underestimate their zeal that much, James?"

"Yes, because our _safe_-houses have had such a _stellar_ record," snarked James. "Remember the McKinnons? Weren't _they_ supposed to be _safe_?"

There were gasps in the room as James dealt what many considered to be a low blow, especially considering that Dumbledore had himself guaranteed the safety of the victims, moments prior to their murder.

It was a testament to the old mage's self-restraint and his irritation that he visibly narrowed his eyes—an action that was typically reserved only for those he duelled. "We rooted out that spy," he reminded James, carefully drawing out his words such that his anger would not flow into his tone. "There should be no more leaks."

James was not to be browbeaten, however. "_Should_ be is not good enough," he snapped back. "Not when my family is on the line. Remember what I told you when I joined?"

Dumbledore sighed. Why was the Potter patriarch acting so difficult? Couldn't he see there was more at stake than his family? "I remember. You would be loyal to the Order to the day you die, unless its interests went directly against the wellbeing of your family."

James nodded once firmly, ignoring the muttering behind his back as he focused all his attention on Dumbledore. "That's right. Now, tell me Dumbledore, am I going to have to take the Unbreakable Vow, or will you reconsider letting us leave the country?"

"Is there no room for compromise?" asked Dumbledore wearily, knowing that James taking the Vow would only happen if he quit the order. The same would then have to be applied to Lily. "My sources tell me that Voldemort—" he patently ignored the flinches and muted screams, silently proud of the fact that James' own reaction had dimmed to a barely noticeable twitch in his left shoulder. "is at the moment keeping an eye on all avenues of exit for the country. Any attempts to flee would result in his immediate tip-off."

James glared. "…How long did you wait to use _that_ excuse?" he asked angrily.

Dumbledore stared James down. "It is _not_ an excuse, James, but cold fact. Convenient to myself or not, it is what is happening; thanks to the instability on the continent, the Muggle authorities have stepped up their immigration security measures, which just makes it easier for Voldemort to monitor them with little manpower while he has the bulk of his spies checking on the magical transport hubs."

James grit his teeth. It didn't seem like he was going to secure a way out of the country for Lily, Harry, and he, but damned if he wasn't going to try to get this situation done on his terms! Trust the old man as he did to lead the war effort against Voldemort, he was less trusting with regards to his family's wellbeing.

"Fine. What do you offer as a compromise?" finally asked James.

Dumbledore reached for a drawer in his desk and pulled out a stack of papers. "Go over these with Lily—they're houses we put bids on for later use as safe-houses, but haven't finalized the transactions. Thus, no one should know about them—our side or theirs. Pick three, let me know, and that'll be your safe house," he proposed, before glancing at the quiet figure of Frank Longbottom and nodding at him. "When you're done, please pass them onto Frank so he and Alice can do the same."

James looked down at the papers in his hands, noting the obscuring charm on them that would hide their contents from any peepers. It was a good deal, all things considered, but…

"I want the _Fidelius_," he spoke up then, an unflinching stare directed at his old Headmaster. Years ago, such bullheadedness before the powerful mage would have been laughable. Now, everyone could feel the strength of James' determination.

Dumbledore was silent for a moment. "That would delay the occupation of the safe-house considerably. The _Fidelius_ is no easy spell to cast and requires many preparations."

James shrugged. "Nonetheless, if you want us to stay in the country, we'll need the _Fidelius_ as a guarantee," he said stubbornly. He wasn't about to take the same odds the McKinnons did. They were dead, and he was not. He was personally invested in making sure that would stay that way. "If not, Lily and I will take our chances and take Harry with us to Europe."

"James, Europe is practically on the verge of war every passing day," Arthur Weasley, one of the newer recruits into the Order (ironically, though, not among its youngest) reminded him. "How would going there be safer?"

James was stubborn, however. "Europe's magical communities have made it clear they want nothing to do with V-Voldemort," he mentally cursed himself for stuttering at the name, though noted that it was infinitely better than screaming or damn near fainting, as he saw his colleagues doing. "So with a little bit of money, a few favours cashed in, we'd be incognito without any problems."

Dumbledore, however, was not about to let James take that chance. Even if, as James had told him he believed, the prophecy was "a load of crock," he wasn't about to take any chances—not when the Magical World's very stability lay in the balance. Thus, he was forced to agree with the compromise. "Very well, you'll get the _Fidelius_," he said wearily, wishing that the Potters would be more reasonable. Now he had to vacate his schedule for the next two weeks if he was going to be able to set up the _Fidelius_ appropriately. Noticing Frank's anxious look, Dumbledore sighed as he mentally corrected himself and mentally noted to himself to vacate the next _four_ weeks in his schedule. "Yes, Frank, you'll be getting the _Fidelius_ too."

James had a triumphant look on his face as he wormed out the promise from Dumbledore, nodding back at Frank when the man looked at him gratefully. No matter what happened, he would _not_ let his family become pawns in this war. On his honour as a Potter.

"Now, if that's all, James, may we continue with the meeting?" asked Dumbledore, who was decidedly _not_ happy with the fact that they had been derailed to this extent. At James' nod, Dumbledore sighed quietly in relief and arranged his expression back into its grandfatherly persona. "Excellent. Now then, about team deployments for the next week…"

* * *

**United Kingdom, January 6****th****, 1981…**

There was the sound of a door opening and then closing.

"Lily, I'm home!" James all but shouted, instantly regretting it when he heard his infant son burst out crying somewhere on the second floor.

Sure enough, Lily came down the flight of stairs with a crying Harry cradled in her arms, her usually beautiful face marred with a glare she directed at her husband. "He had _just_ gotten to sleep, you berk!"

James held up his hands in surrender, knowing full well when to cut his losses. "Sorry! It's just…been a long day…wasn't thinking!"

Lily's glare softened slightly, but did not go away, even as she rocked baby Harry gently in her arms. "Damn right you weren't thinking!" she reprimanded him, her voice softer as she continued to try to get her son to sleep. So far, it was working. A glance down told her his eyes had begun drooping, so she took her chances and looked back up at her husband, her unsaid query in her eyes.

James sighed. "No good," he told her regretfully, motioning to the Muggle newspaper underneath his armpit. "Looks like the situation in Europe's just getting worse all the time. Even with that new bloke leading the Russkies trying to get all chummy with the Yanks, it's like the rest of Europe just doesn't care."

Lily sighed. Ever since they had gone into hiding, James had continuously and determinedly kept up his queries into the situation in Europe, looking for the moment when the immigration policies would soften up and he could smuggle his family out by posing as Muggles. So far, however, nothing had loosened up. In fact, if she didn't know any better, she might have believed someone was deliberately trying to keep the European continent as fractured as possible, judging by the daily worsening of relations between the continental nations.

Still, this would require some discussion. So, giving James a familiar look, she went back upstairs and tucked in Harry in his crib before coming back down and finding her husband already plopped onto his favourite couch. With almost routine grace, she quietly made her way to his side and sat down, taking one of his rugged hands into her own and setting it on her lap.

"It's frustrating," James then said, after a moment of silence between the two. "It's like, even with all the money and power my folks had, I can't use any of it to protect you two," he confessed.

"James…" she started, but was held up by a squeeze of his hand.

"I know, I know," he told her with a wry grin. "I'm being too hard on myself, right?"

Silently, she nodded, giving him a sly smile in return. "Hard to believe I'm being predictable to _James Potter_," she teased him. "I still remember the days when you would get all tongue tied and confused around me."

James laughed, though he kept it low to avoid waking Harry up. While a silencing spell would have solved the issue of soundproofing that room, they both agreed that it would pose a security risk as well. "I remember," he confirmed, grinning fondly up at the ceiling at the memories. "I guess after Severus accidentally let it slip how he felt about you…I just knew I had to shape up, since he had a leg up on me and all."

Lily's smile dropped a little at the memory of her estranged best friend. "Those were…better days," she said softly.

James kept his eyes on the ceiling, his own expression turning nostalgic. "Yeah…better days."

"Still, I can't believe I actually got you to call Severus by his actual name, rather than that childish nickname Sirius made up."

"Oi, Snivellus was a _great_ nickname!"

Somewhere else, a pale, hook-nosed man sneezed and felt his urge to kill annoying pranksters rise considerably.

* * *

**United Kingdom, July 31****st****, 1981…**

Lily sighed sadly as she watched her husband play with their now one-year-old son. Under normal circumstances, she would have made the day a grand occasion, possibly by inviting her son's playmates and their parents over, and even cooking up a true feast. As it was, however, they had only received short visits from Sirius, Remus, Peter, and Dumbledore before they had all left—each at separate intervals and through different means, so as to divert attention.

While the _Fidelius_ could hide a home to the furthest extent of magic, it could also be circumvented, given enough patience and tracking. In such an occasion, it would not be impossible to simply lay waste to the entire area and, by association, land a hit on the house. As such, it was protocol for all visits to happen sparingly, and each visit to last only a short amount of time, resulting in their current lack of guests for this otherwise happy occasion.

James, for his part, had coped well with the isolation, despite being an incredibly social creature. Between occupying himself with looking for ways to smuggle his family out of the country and taking care of his wife and infant son, he was as content as he could be, barring constant association with his friends. Lily could not begrudge his constant presence in the house, either—James Potter, if nothing else, was a loyal man devoted to his family.

Still, it was these times that made her question her attachment to the Magical World. How hard would it be to simply…_stop_ being a mage? James was _extremely_ adaptable, as she'd soon found out after their graduation from Hogwarts, so the transition, while momentarily rocky, would not be too strenuous. Harry could even go to a normal school, make normal friends, live a normal life…

It was always at this point that she would then sigh and wake up from her daydreaming, so to speak. The odds of them doing any such thing were remote, if not impossible. As long as Voldemort still ran around, the threat of her son getting attacked by some crazed madman would haunt them forever. Voldemort would have to be buried six feet under for her to ever consider such a life.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Lily twitched slightly as James' voice broke through her deep internal monologue. Apparently, from what she could see, little Harry—now back in his crib—had fallen asleep again, probably from all the excitement he'd built up from playing with his father. James, for his part, recognized the look on her face instantly—he wore it himself on most bad days.

Still, he let her talk it out for herself. It would be cathartic that way. With a patient look, he waited until she began talking, and then held her comfortingly as she released her frustrations into his chest, deliberately ignoring the moistness that was growing there from her tears.

Why couldn't he do more for them? Was he not the Potter patriarch—one of the most wealthy and politically powerful men of Magical Britain? In his father's time, he could have ordered a small squad of professional hitmen to take care of anyone who made Lily cry, but now, that was impossible. Between the fact that one would have to be near suicidal, or damn stupid to attack Voldemort head-on, it was unlikely that the situation could be resolved using his age-old family contacts.

So incapacitated, James did the next best thing he could to provide comfort for his wife and just held her as she quietly sobbed into his chest. Silently, he vowed to make this up to her somehow.

On his honour as a Potter.

* * *

**United Kingdom, October 31****st****, 1981…**

James could not believe the situation before him.

After over a _year_ living in this safe-house, just as he had begun to let his guard down, the _unthinkable_ had happened: Voldemort had found them.

No, that wasn't quite good enough an explanation for how this came to pass. Voldemort, for all his power, did not have the methods to bypass a _Fidelius_ spell so smoothly. Hell, if it hadn't been for the proximity alert spells he'd placed on the perimeter in a fit of justified paranoia, they would have never realized he'd found them until the door was blasted off its hinges.

The implications of their current circumstances were thus quite dire. Voldemort had gotten their address from the Secret-Keeper himself, which meant either one of two things: Peter had cracked, or Peter had turned.

With all due respect to his currently absent friend, James knew quite well that both possibilities were good ones. Peter had all the willpower of a worm, and had an unhealthy admiration for powerful people. In his youth, the source of said admiration had been Dumbledore, James himself, Sirius, and Remus—thus why he had been part of the Marauders. However, now that they were adults, and given the passive way Dumbledore was fighting the war, James could make the logical leap to believe that Peter had found his new object of admiration in Voldemort.

Unfortunately, Voldemort was all too willing to confirm this as they duelled.

"Pathetic, Potter!" the Dark Lord scoffed as he deflected another vicious spell from James. Truthfully, the dark mage was quite impressed with the Potter patriarch, noting both the man's liberal use of lethal spells and the power behind them. However, as fighting just as psychological as it was physical, he would not show this admiration before his enemy. "It's no wonder that simplistic rat of a friend of yours turned to me, if this is the best Dumbledore's elite can do!"

Noting to himself that he would later go and punish his traitorous friend for this betrayal, James ignored the taunt and kept up his skilful duel with the Dark Lord, mindful enough to dodge the Unforgivables whenever Voldemort lashed out with them. Years ago, this sort of attitude would not have been his _modus operandi_ at all. He would have taken the taunt to heart, bull-charged the Dark Lord, and would have probably taken an _Avada_ _Kedavra_ to the face for his foolhardiness.

A year of isolation, however, had done wonders for his patience and self-restraint, and he was able to brush off the psychological attacks with almost laughable ease. Being self-restrained, however, did not mean he was good enough to deal with an erratic and enraged Voldemort, which was why he forewent any retorts. His best bet, at this point, was to keep the Dark Lord's attention on himself while Lily secured Harry's room and then returned to help him.

Having spent a little over a year with Lily and Harry as his only constant company meant that James was intimately knowledgeable of his wife's abilities. Where he might have been more cavalier about a duel with Voldemort previously, he was now fully cognizant to the need of having a skilled partner to help him, and he wasn't above asking his darling wife for help (she had browbeaten that out of him months ago).

As it was, however, James knew he had to buy Lily a few more minutes while she made Harry's room into virtually an impregnable fortress, such that Voldemort would not be able to enter the room with any ease—thereby guaranteeing that he would keep his attention on the Potter elders. If they were gone, then logically there wouldn't be any chance for Harry to survive either.

Thus, with more skill than Voldemort had expected of the Potter patriarch, James gave as hard as he got, his elaborate footwork serving to keep him out of the path of the more dangerous spells—one of which, if he didn't contain it soon, would set the whole house on fire.

Spell after spell flew between the two combatants as they performed their deadly dance. With almost instinctive speed, James deflected one spell, then another, then spun in place to avoid another and deflected the one after that one. Similarly, Voldemort spent his time either firing spells or deflecting them as James Potter slowly made his way up his personal list of "Rivals Who Need To Die."

It was a shame that the raven-haired man would not turn to his camp. With such untapped skill and power, he would have made one of his best lieutenants. Trying to turn him was, however, an exercise in futility, as he knew the man held steadfast loyalty to his family and its time-honoured ideals of justice and loyalty.

Unaware of the thoughts racing in the Dark Lord's head, James kept up his end of the duel, playing for more time as he felt the final touches of the security spells on Harry's room being set. Lily was almost done, and he would need to save his strength for when she joined in the fight, which would likely force Voldemort to kick it up a notch.

True to his predictions, the moment Lily entered the fray—wand ablaze as she raced down the staircase—Voldemort resorted to using his more destructive spells, causing holes to appear all over the house as explosions blasted them into creation.

To the Dark Lord's frustration, he could not seem to get a hit on either Potter elders. Each was displaying an unusual amount of skill for their age, and this confounded the dark mage. That worm of a spy had told him that the two had spent their time in near isolation—so how could they become this good at duelling?

Unfortunately for him, thinking about his enemies' capacities caused him to fail to notice the fact that in between spellfire, the two Potters had been casting spells at the floor as they circled him. The end result, however, became quickly apparent when James shouted out, "Lily! _NOW!_"

With a nod, she raised her wand and pointed it at Voldemort—who was unknowingly standing smack dab in the centre of it—at the same time that James did, a spell forming on her and James' lips before the Dark Lord realized what was going on.

"_Signus Fulmens!_" the two cried out, just as Voldemort raised his wand in a final, desperate attempt to take one of the two down with him.

"_Avada Kedavr—_" the word died right on the last letter as Voldemort then began to scream, his concentration shattered by the runic spell the two Potters had cast on him, causing millions of volts of electricity to race throughout his entire body. Within seconds, his body began to emit smoke as the electric current running throughout him burned him from the inside out, until all that was left was a smoking carcass on the floor, its skin completely charred.

It was only then that James nodded at Lily and the two began to releas the spell, allowing the carcass to finally rest in peace. Yet, the moment they started doing so, they jumped back in fright as a black burst of smoky energy shot out from the body with a shrill, ethereal scream, racing out of the house through one of the holes caused by the explosive spells. The resulting fright caused them to hastily break off the spell, causing the consequent feedback to destroy their wands. Lily's snapped roughly in two, while James' exploded into pieces, only sparing his hand from similar treatment due to his having thrown it hastily away as he realized what was about to happen.

Looking at the escape made James realize the danger they were still in, as Voldemort's fire spells continued consuming the safe house. James snorted. Safe house indeed. Looking to his wife, he found her on her knees, the sheer mental exhaustion—coupled with the magical exhaustion of the duel—having taken its toll.

"I'll get Harry," he said as he moved towards the staircase. Moments later, he was back, and with Harry in his arms, the infant bundled up in protective covers. "We've got to get out of here, and quickly," he informed his wife.

Lily nodded shakily. "R-Right…Dumbledore has to be—"

James snorted, cutting Lily off and making her look up at him in surprise. "Dumbledore hasn't got to be told squat," he told her plainly. "What do you think he'll do, when we tell him we offed Voldemort? Leave us be?"

Lily's mind seemed to restart from the exhaustion, and she quickly pieced together her husband's logic. "You're right…he'd all but parade us," she concluded, smiling when she saw the proud look on James' face. "We'd be walking targets for the Death Eaters."

James nodded and looked down at the sleeping infant in his arms. "We can't let him push that kind of life onto us and Harry here," he said determinedly. "We owe it to our son to see to it that he has a peaceful life, away from all this bloody conflict."

Lily still had her doubts, though. "They'll eventually piece it together, you know," she warned him. "And we're wandless now, so we can't protect Harry."

James gave her a stern look. "We're wandless _right now_," he corrected. "There must be a few decent shops somewhere that would sell us replacements."

"What about Ollivander?"

James shook his head. "Ollivander's thick with Dumbledore. Moment we got new ones, Dumbledore would be all over us," he informed her. He paused for a few moments before looking at her seriously. "I say we try to leave Britain for Europe."

Lily's eyes widened in surprise. "But _his_," she waved at the corpse, "spies are still monitoring the magical exits, and we don't have our passports or travel visas!"

For the first time that evening, James' eyes twinkled with mischief. "Actually…" he drawled, moving over to his work desk and pulling a manila folder from a drawer. "We do," he corrected her as he waved the folder in the air.

Lily looked stunned. "How? No, nevermind how…_when?_" she asked, surprised she hadn't noticed the folder before when doing cleaning.

"Two weeks ago," he informed her. "Came in at our postal office box. I had the applications sent about three months ago, just to be sure."

"As a just in case measure?" she asked, raising a dubious eyebrow. James didn't bother to hide his reasons and shrugged.

"For the moment we thought it was possible to leave and not have mister 'I hate all living beings' there on our tail."

Lily gave James a critical look for not having informed her of this counter-measure, but eventually relented and smiled softly, proud of her husband for having thought so far into the future to protect his family. "So, where are we going?" she asked, allowing a teasing tone to enter her voice.

James grinned, offering his free hand to her to help her up. "How do you feel about Bonn?"

* * *

**West Germany, September 1****st****, 1984…**

"Lily, hurry up with Harry or we're going to be late!"

"We're coming, we're coming!"

James waited patiently at the bottom of the stairs of their small, suburban house for his wife and only son to come to the car. With a wave, he smiled and greeted the neighbours, an elderly couple who were living off the husband's profits during his youth. It spoke much of their financial success that they, like he and his family, were living in Bad Godesberg, the "posh" section of Bonn.

Hell, just to get to his job he had to pass several embassies!

Of course, the way he and Lily passed off their wealth was that he had several overseas investments feeding into his account, which let him work, alongside Lily, as a bookstore owner. It was, to his mind, probably the dullest job on the planet, which was exactly why no one would bother looking for him and Lily there. Everyone who knew them would _never_ expect James Potter working in a bookstore. _Ever_.

So naturally, he had jumped onto the idea.

Today, however, was an important day for their small family. Harry was beginning kindergarten—his first real step towards a normal, peaceful life. It had taken a little persuasion, but James and Lily were now proud to say that their son was enrolled in the Bonn International School, which Lily had been adamant on Harry entering from the moment she had a glimpse at the offered curriculum, nevermind the fact that it was expensive as all hell—an excuse he couldn't really use, considering their wealth.

The moment Lily and Harry came out of the house, James was all smiles, making the elderly neighbours on the other side of the picket fence laugh knowingly, themselves having had three children in their lifetime. With a grin, James scooped up his son and laughed as little Harry squealed at the sudden loss of ground beneath his feet.

"Excited to go to school?" he asked, laughing when he saw Harry nod his head rapidly in response. "Hah! Looks like he's got your genes there, Lily-love!" he claimed, before giving little Harry a toss in the air and catching him, then repeating it several more times as Harry laughed in excitement.

Lily smiled at the two tolerantly, having gotten used to the antics the two would get up to. While typically a serious minded, albeit fun-loving man, James pretty much reverted to a child-like mindset whenever he was with his son. "Didn't you say we'd be late?" she asked gently, reminding James that they were indeed cutting it close.

The Potter patriarch paled quickly and quickly put his son back on the ground at that realization. "Crap!" he muttered, making sure that his son wouldn't hear him. "You put him in the back while I get the car running," he suggested, quickly getting into the car and starting the engine while Lily patiently got Harry into his seat and secured the seatbelt across his small frame.

"Do you remember the rule for the car?" she asked him gently, smiling when he nodded excitedly. The young boy always loved pleasing his parents with his astounding memory.

"Don't take off the belt!" he exclaimed, full of anticipation at the praise he was sure to get.

Lily smiled warmly, petting him on the cheek lovingly. "That's right!" she said with a smile, making him glow with pride. Laughing, she gently kissed him on the forehead before shutting the car door and getting in front with James.

Turning his head back to drive in reverse, James took the opportunity to grin at his young son and wink at him. "Ready for a fun time at school?"

Little Harry pumped his arms in the air wildly. "Yeah!"

* * *

**West Germany, April 20****th****, 1985…**

"Um…daddy?"

"Yes, son?" asked James patiently as he worked at his desk, trying desperately not to show the anxiety he was feeling as he knew that any day now, Lily would be giving birth to their second child. Even worse was the fact that he knew via his contacts that somehow, word of their presence had filtered to Dumbledore, so he was even more stressed by the necessary preparations for their move to France.

"Mommy told me to get you…" Harry said softly. "She said to say it was time."

James' reaction to his son's news was to flinch violently, causing the pen he was wielding to shoot off wildly across the embossed paper he was using to finalize a new investment order for his account manager. "_What?!_" he squeaked in surprise, turning around quickly to face his son, who looked scared—as though he thought he'd done something wrong.

"D-Did I say something bad?" Harry asked timidly.

James quickly snapped out of his initial shock, realizing the impression he was giving his son. Quickly, he moved forward and wrapped his son in a tight hug. "Of course not, son," he reassured the boy. "You…just surprised me, that's all. Where's mommy?" he asked quickly.

Harry, his confidence revitalized by the assurance from his father, pointed towards the staircase. "In her room. Is mommy okay?"

James nodded as he pulled back and had his hands on his son's shoulders. "Yes, she'll be fine. Now, remember that special bag mommy and I told you about?" he asked. His son was five, he could handle the weight. At the nod, James smiled. "I need you to get it for me and meet us at the door. Daddy's going to get mommy, and then we're going for a ride, okay?"

Nodding with an excited grin, Harry rushed off to do as he was told, as James sighed and then rushed up the staircase himself, eager to get Lily to the hospital as quick as was humanly possible. Thankfully, this second pregnancy had been more tolerable than the first, but that didn't mean that it was comfortable for Lily…or that she wouldn't verbally abuse him for it.

Soon enough, the small family were on their way towards the hospital, where Harry was forced to wait outside the delivery room, and as a result James opted to stay out as well, giving his wife an apologetic look that she immediately smiled at, silently telling him she understood.

Thankfully, it did not take long for this birth to occur—unlike Harry's, where Lily had been forced to stay in labour for twelve hours before she was ready to give birth. Thus, soon enough, the doors to the delivery room opened and a small cry got James' attention, making him look up at the middle-aged nurse who was smiling gently at the bundle in her arms.

"_Herr _Potter?" she asked, eliciting a nod. "_Ihr Sohn. Glückwünsche!_" she said, handing the baby in the blue blanket—denoting its gender—to the second-time father. She laughed softly as she watched James stare dumbfounded at the bundle, as though he couldn't believe that he was a father…again.

"Is that him?!" asked Harry excitedly at his side, jumping up and down as he tried to get a look at his new baby brother.

Snapping out of his stupor, James grinned proudly and nodded down at Harry, squatting down so he could see his new brother. "Harry, meet your brother William," he said softly as he noticed the newborn drifting off to sleep.

"He's so tiny!" whispered Harry with awe.

James grinned. "So were you."

"No way!"

* * *

**Milan, Italy, 1990…**

"Damnit!"

Lily said nothing as she watched her husband rage in their new home. With good reason, too…once again, they had been forced to move as their location leaked to Dumbledore, making it at least four times in the past two years that they had to suddenly pack up and move. This time, however, they had barely been able to escape, so quick had the Headmaster reacted to the news.

Instead of raging herself, however, she held onto her two children, who were both hugging her tightly as they watched their father rage away at the unfairness of the situation. She couldn't begrudge him the cathartic action, but she dearly wished he had decided to reserve it for a time that their children weren't a witness to it.

"Why…?" she heard a small voice ask close to her chest. Looking down, she saw that it was Harry who had spoken. When he looked up, she could clearly see the barely suppressed anger raging in those beautiful jade eyes. "Why don't they leave us _alone?_" he demanded, this time clearly. Lily was uncertain how best to answer that question.

James, however, had no such reservations. "Because, son," he answered, his fist bleeding from the fact that he had slammed it against the wall in frustration. "They think they have a right to force us to be their mouthpieces."

"What's a mouthpiece?" little William asked, curiously.

Lily was about to answer when James cut in once again. "It's someone who says what others want him to say, without regard to how he feels about it," James explained bitterly. "They'd be hounding us all the time…always meddling with our lives…always judging, always looking…"

Harry's intelligent eyes glanced between his mother and father, taking in their expressions and committing them to memory. His father had his head bowed for the first time in Harry's memory, a feeling of desperation and frustration practically oozing from him, while Lily seemed to be doing her very best to act strong for him and his brother, though Harry could see the glint of water forming in her eyes.

Something rose within him—something strange and unfamiliar. It wasn't anger—he knew what that felt like. This was…more uncomfortable than that. It made him want to hurt those who were making his father look so beaten and his mother so sad. It made him want to punish them in ways they could not imagine, and then bow before his parents for forgiveness. It demanded vengeance, in such a way that this would never happen again.

"Can't…we _make_ them stop?" he asked slowly, still trying to hold back the unpleasant feeling rising in his gut.

James sighed, shaking his lowered head. "No one has that kind of power," he stated numbly.

And thus, unknowingly, James lit the fire of ambition within his son.

'_If no one has that kind of power, then __**I**__ will. On my honour as a Potter._'

* * *

**Liverpool, United Kingdom, 1991…**

Harry, or Francis White as he was calling himself now, looked around him cautiously as he neared Liverpool College. It had been an incredible risk, but his parents and he had agreed that, under assumed identities and magical cloaking, he should be able to pass off as a regular person. Fortunately, as most of Britain's magical population centred itself in and around London, the risk of being spotted casually was inestimably low. However, he wasn't about to tempt fate and let his guard down—that had led to many a move on the Continent, and fuelled his desire to hurt the people responsible for bringing such anguish on his family.

Harry couldn't help the wince that the thought of his family brought about. As a further means of ensuring that no one would find out about his presence or theirs, Harry had to enter Liverpool College as a boarding student. While he missed his family something terrible already, he knew this was as much for their own good as for his. Besides, his dad had given him a two-way mirror, so he wouldn't have to worry about falling out of touch.

Still, this was a novel experience, being out in the world by himself. But, as his father had reminded him, he was a scion of House Potter—he had to be strong, both for his family's sake and for the sake of his own dreams. Dreams that, in the already highly intelligent mind of Harry James Potter, were beginning to take more and more shape by the day.

But for now, he had to content himself with the growing feel of anxiety that he was trying desperately to control. Of course, one was not as smart as he was without realizing exactly what the source of this anxiety was—he was nervous about going to school, just like any other child his age. Would he manage to make friends? What if the teachers were boring as hell? What if he failed a course and his parents found out? What if…?

Harry shook his head violently as he realized he was quickly descending a very slippery slope of flawed logic. Rationally, he could understand that none of these worries were valid as long as he failed to attempt the actions linked to them in the first place. Moreover, he guessed he was looking quite dumb, standing there in front of the school gates with his luggage around him, staring aimlessly at the building in front of him.

He stumbled suddenly as someone hit the back of his left shoulder, and had an angry retort on his lips when he realized it was a young boy about his age, a friendly grin on his face. "What was that for?" he grumbled instead, rubbing his shoulder.

The boy shrugged. "You looked out of it," he offered by way of explanation. He then motioned to the luggage. "You new here?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah, I'll be staying at the boarding facilities," he replied, only to see the boy raise an eyebrow at the elaborate vocabulary. "I'm going to be living here," he dumbed it down.

"Ooooh, why didn't you say so?" asked the boy in confusion, making Harry sigh. Then, the grin was back. "Need help? I know where the others are staying, since my brother's friend is there."

Harry smiled gratefully at the boy, his worries dispelling. "That'd be great, thanks!"

The boy grinned and stuck out a hand. "John. John Lyles," he introduced himself.

Harry grinned and shook the boy's hand. "Francis. Francis White."

And in that instant, Harry made his first friend.

* * *

**Liverpool College, United Kingdom, 1992…**

Harry slumped in exhaustion against his desk, thanking whatever deities there be that the class bell had rung at long last. They had just been through their year finals, and the whole event had been mentally strenuous to the 11-year old. Sure, he was smart for his age, but it didn't mean he _enjoyed_ taking tests and writing until he felt sure his hand would cramp up permanently.

Hearing a groan to his left, he smiled wearily as he immediately attributed it to his best friend, John Lyles. After the brown-haired, grey-eyed boy had helped him out on his first day, the two had been inseparable, despite the fact that John was a local and Harry stayed at the boarding dorms.

"Man, that was a tough one, eh Francis?" he heard John ask him. Harry nodded wearily.

"You said it…I mean, who _cares_ about most of this stuff anyway?" he complained. "No one's going to ask us who the first king of England was, unless we study history in university…"

John made a face. "I know, ugh…"

Absently, Harry noted that half the class was leaving the room, probably to either complain to their friends about the test, or, more likely, to get lunch. "Food?" he asked.

John nodded. "Food."

Slowly, the not-so-dynamic duo got out of their seats and trudged along to the cafeteria. Only to be almost immediately intercepted by what John had smarmily dubbed "White's Fan Squad," otherwise known as Rose Hughes and Felicia Harding. Harry didn't mind, though—the girls were nice enough to both of them, though he did note that they seemed to hang onto his every word. He wondered why.

John watched with what appeared to be amusement, and a little annoyance, as the two girls immediately came to a screeching halt right in front of the object of their adoration.

"How did you do?!" asked Rose, the brainier of the duo.

Harry smiled and waved aside their obvious concerns. "Eh…I did fine, like usual," he assured them. "How about you girls?"

John audibly groaned at the obvious faux-pas, as the girls immediately began to regale Harry with their 'harrowing' tales of finishing their first year Math exam. Suffice to say that, while Harry smiled and nodded at all the appropriate junctures, he was doing so more on autopilot than out of actual listening. He felt bad for the girls, really he did, but complaining about what he saw as simple math was not exactly something designed to get his interest.

Thus, without ever having realized what had happened, Harry had skilfully made them talk as they walked, until they reached the cafeteria and there had to hold up a hand to stop the two girls from talking any further, lest he miss his meal.

"How about we get some food and _then_ finish this _delightful_ conversation?" he asked smoothly, getting a knowing smirk from John as the girls nodded eagerly and went off to grab what they wanted.

Behind him, John snickered. "You know, you _could_ have just _not_ asked them about their day," he noted. Harry shrugged.

"What would be the point of that? It'd be rude and cavalier of me," he said simply by way of explanation. John rolled his eyes.

"You and your fancy, big words."

It was Harry's turn to smirk now. "You _could_ just buy that thesaurus, like I suggested."

"Oi!"

* * *

**Liverpool College, United Kingdom, 1993…**

Breathing a little hard, Harry waited with baited breath as the horde passed right by the closed classroom door he was desperately flattened against, thanking the deities that be that he was too short to be seen through the glass a few inches above his head.

The moment the sound of mass footsteps reached his ears, he practically stopped breathing as he waited for them to pass by the door, praying that they wouldn't decide to check each and every single classroom on the way. Or, that if they did, that they would give up upon seeing that the door wouldn't budge.

It was one of these times that Harry _really_ wished that he could use magic in public, but no dice, according to his parents. His mom and dad had been _really_ strict about that before he even got into Liverpool College, and so one of the standing conditions for his attendance at LC was that he keep his magic a secret, unless told otherwise.

Thinking about his magic, and the current situation, Harry couldn't help the almost instinctive wandless magic exercise he and his dad had designed: a simple snap of his fingers, which in turn caused a spark to appear just off his fingers. That was the extent of his power at the moment, but his dad had told him that even that much was amazing, considering that most mages today could not even produce a spark. For his part, Harry theorized that fire was perhaps his closest aligned element, which would explain why he could create that spark, but not one of electricity, or even a drop of water.

"Hmm?"

Harry had to rally every last bit of his self-restraint not to jump and yelp at the sudden noise. Immediately, his mind raced through the criminal procedure his father had drilled into him that the Ministry of Magic enforced on violators of the Statute of Secrecy. Would they know if this person had seen magic? Could they even detect that small of a spark? If so, why hadn't they already interrupted his other lessons? Could he possibly get away with mind wiping the person in question?

"Oh, someone else is here, huh?" Harry's thought process slowed down considerably upon noticing that the person in question—a girl, by the sound of it—sounded _really_ sleepy. He also noticed, for the first time, that they were in the science room.

That was when a thought struck him. _Who sleeps in a science classroom?_

"Err…hiya!" he greeted nervously, one hand on the door handle in case she was one of his admirers as well.

The girl, whose figure he could not yet see due to the fact that she seemingly chose to sleep as near to the rear-most corner, and the blinds were down, suddenly clapped her hands, and the lights came on, giving him his first good look of her.

She was short—maybe a head shorter than him—and had curly, golden-blonde hair that was cut to her chin; which, combined with her slightly round facial structure, gave her a very cute appearance. What dissuaded him from lumping her into the same category as his admirers, however, were her eyes.

Ice-blue, they were not looking at him with admiration, lust, or any sort of emotion. Instead, she was seemingly examining him, the way a scientist examined a particularly intriguing exhibit at a zoo. She stared at him for a few seconds before she even replied to his greeting with a nod.

"You're White, right?" she asked. "Francis White, the ex-pat?"

Harry blinked. That certainly wasn't the vocabulary of a 12 year old. "…Yeah, I am. How'd you know? Who are you, anyway?"

The girl gave him a superior smirk that, in any other occasion, would have had him fuming from hurt pride. On her face, however, it merely seemed to reinforce her scientist impression. "I'll have you know that we've been in the same class for the past two years," she informed him primly. "I'm always at the very back, in the corner."

Harry racked his mind for memories of this girl, and sure enough, the few he had of her placed her at the back of the class, usually looking out the window with a bored look. "I remember now…Eisenheim, wasn't it?" he asked.

The girl nodded, a pleased smile on her face. "That's right. Elicia Maria Eisenheim," she introduced herself proudly. "So, why are you here?" she asked bluntly. "Usually, popular kids like you avoid the classroom like the plague."

Harry narrowed his eyes reflexively at the implied slight. "What do you know?" he snapped back, the hand on the door handle coming off and instinctively shifting to his back, where he was _aching_ to do his wandless magic exercise, since the rhythmic snapping served well for meditative focus. "Just because _most_ people like me doesn't mean I hold a grudge towards academics!"

The girl's disbelieving look said it all, eliciting a twitch in his hidden hand. Harry grit his teeth as his self-control was sorely tested. Why was this one girl getting underneath his skin so easily? Any other girls, even the punkish, gang member wannabes seemed to fall for his charm, but this one seemed totally and absolutely impervious to him!

"Is _that_ why you're constantly being chased by your own little harem of brainless fangirls?" she asked archly, further surprising him with her extensive—and quite vulgar—vocabulary; for a 12-year old, anyway. "Out of a _love_ for learning?" the way she had said that question, her intonation insinuating and not-at-all innocent, sent a wave of indignant anger through him.

"I'll have you know," he started slowly, reeling in his patience, "that each of those girls decided to chase me on their own. I have done _nothing_ to incite them into this sort of action, other than being a mere gentleman."

"But you expected the reaction, didn't you?" she asked shrewdly, those damned blue eyes narrowing calculatingly.

Harry stared angrily at the girl for a moment. "What are you talking about?!" he demanded indignantly, "Why would I do such a thing?!"

For once, it seemed he got the upper hand, as the girl looked genuinely surprised at his insulted behaviour. She quickly covered it up, however, with a huff. "Don't play dumb!" she shot back. "You've been using your charms to surround yourself with doting, admiring fans!"

Harry stomped right up to the girl and looked down his nose at her, the insulted look still very much on his face. "How dare you?" he hissed. "I would _never_ do that!"

Now the girl looked positively confused. "Are…you telling me that you've been doing that _by accident_?" she asked, shocked. "That…no way…"

Harry glared at the girl for a moment before turning and moving back to the door, angrily swinging it open. Halting just prior to leaving the room, he glared over his shoulder at her. "I don't know what you're talking about, but I would _never_ do something like what you said."

With that parting shot, he left the room, schooling his features so that only those who knew his best would be able to discern the irritation in his eyes. Unfortunately for him, that amounted to just about everyone on his "fan squad."

Thus, after the next class, Harry quickly found himself surrounded by what Elicia had apparently rightly dubbed his "doting fans."

"What's wrong, Francis?" asked one girl.

"Did something happen?"

"Everything's alright back home, right?"

"Did someone do something to you, Francis?"

Harry couldn't help but be a little shell-shocked by the realization that Elicia Eisenheim had been completely correct about the people surrounding him. Sure, most of them were girls, but there were quite a few boys in the crowd as well, all asking him what was wrong. Even the teacher seemed quite surprised by this seeming rally around him.

It took quite a bit of persuading on his part to get the group to disperse, though he noted that a few vowed to find out what had happened to their "precious Francis" and fix things. For his part, John seemed to take everything in stride, though he privately let him know that he was always willing to listen to any issues he might have. Harry appreciated the gesture, but assured him he was fine.

Instead of moping at the fact that the Eisenheim girl was right, Harry decided to ponder on the significance of such a revelation. What should he do about this? Even unconsciously, he was breeding a group of followers, and it didn't sit quite right with him. Logically speaking, shouldn't he be letting them know what was going on? Shouldn't he get them to stop following him around?

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Harry physically stumbled as the words shot right through his mental monologue. Looking behind him, he saw, much to his surprise, Elicia Eisenheim, standing in the corridor of his dorm building. And, from the fact that she was still wearing her uniform, Harry got the nagging feeling that she was either stalking him, or living in this same building. Had he really been _that_ blind to her?

Pushing those doubts aside, he gave the girl a cold stare. "What do you want?" he asked bitterly, hands in his pockets. "Come to have another go at me?"

Elicia shrugged. "If you want, sure," she replied easily. "Technically, I live here too, though, so there's no reason we wouldn't meet in the hallways like this eventually."

Harry kept his glare, which made her sigh. "Not going to let what happened this morning go, are you?" she asked despondently. "Look, I'm sorry I basically called you an insensitive wanker, but from my perspective, that was what it was."

Seeing that Harry didn't seem willing to answer her, Elicia sighed, shrugged, and then resumed her walk past him. She barely made it a few steps ahead of him before he called out to her. Thank goodness they were alone in the hall, thus far.

"Why did you think that of me?" he asked suddenly.

Elicia stopped mid-stride and glanced back over her shoulder. "You're very smart, White," she told him. "And you seem to have a thing for leading others. I figured you'd put two and two together and decided to use your natural leadership skill to acquire followers early on."

Harry pondered on this. "…And if I do?" he asked tentatively.

Elicia sniffed derisively. "Well, I wouldn't be able to give a positive character reference in the future," she said airily. "But insofar as foresight and planning goes, I'd be very impressed."

"How come?" he asked, curious.

Elicia shrugged. "Most people believe in living for the present, from what I gather," she stated simply. "But only those who meticulously prepare for the future have any real chance of succeeding. Gathering followers now…I reckon you want to be some sort of political leader later on, right?"

"Maybe," he answered noncommittally.

Elicia smirked back at him. "Well, I'd say you've got the evasiveness down pat, though I wonder about the necessary ruthlessness," she noted. "Anyway, even if you aim to be reach the top later, I'll just warn you on this: the position of class best is _mine_."

Harry looked startled. "Is _that_ why you've been so prissy towards me?" he asked dubiously.

The girl scoffed a little at his shock. "Do you know who the Eisenheims are?" she asked. He didn't even need to answer her, as she already knew what he would say. "Of course not. No one has…yet. My father's a scientist, as is my mother. My grandfathers on both sides were also scientists…and, due to their somewhat eccentric beliefs, the scientific community marginalized them all. I intend to restore some semblance of honour to our name, starting with the position of top student."

With that said, the girl gave a lazy wave over her shoulder and walked away, leaving a mildly stunned Harry behind. He could respect the girl's goals, though he couldn't really warm up to her brash personality. Plus, there was that whole thing about his unintentional use of his natural charisma to make people his followers. That wasn't true, was it?

Harry sighed. Yes it was. How could it not be, after having the facts so plainly laid out for him to understand? That being said, however, what was he going to do about it? The honourable thing would be to simply let his "followers" down as gently as possible and restrain himself in the future.

Although…what was it that Elicia had told him? She wondered about his ruthlessness? Was…that necessary for a leader? Thinking back on the few history lessons they had, as well as thinking about the only leader he really knew—his dad—he came up with a startling answer. To varying degrees, it _was_ necessary to put the overall goal over the wellbeing of others. Especially if one intended to succeed in as grandiose a goal as his own. Had he not intended to force the mages to back off of his family? Hadn't his father noted that to do so would require great power? In both cases, he would have to disregard the wishes of quite a few people in order to get what he wanted.

In fact, wasn't that how things worked _anyway_? If you wanted something that there were limited quantities of, didn't that mean that someone inevitably had to lose? Thus, wouldn't it be wiser to embrace this gift of manipulation rather than let it act haphazardly?

Still, it left a bad taste in Harry's mouth as he came to this conclusion. Morally speaking, it went against his very nature to abuse people that way, and even as he wanted to reach the level of power where he could get the mages to back off, he didn't want to do it at the cost of someone else's happiness and potential. That wasn't the kind of leader he wanted to be.

A thought struck him then.

Couldn't he technically use his natural charisma to _encourage_ others to develop themselves? Moreover, if he gathered people around him and turned them into his followers, wouldn't he be able to both improve their own abilities with subtle encouragement _and_ further his own goals? That would be like having his cake and eating it too!

"There he is!" he heard someone cry far behind him—probably at the end of the hallway.

Harry smiled. Time to see if his alleged talent was as good as the Eisenheim girl said it was.

* * *

**Dover, United Kingdom, 1993…**

The emaciated man woke groggily as he felt his current 'mattress' rock a little. It was at this point that he also felt the need to panic wildly as he failed to recognize his surroundings. Had the events of the previous few days been a total lie? Had he actually been dreaming everything up? Was reality really determined to be just _that_ cruel to him? He shut his eyes tightly as he felt tears of frustration building up.

"Oi, looks like the guest of honour's finally woken up!" the filthy man heard someone speak loudly—too loudly, for his comfort. "About time, princess!" he heard the man then say a lot closer to him.

The man opened his eyes again, this time to see a rather plain, older looking man grinning toothily down at him, wearing a brownish, plaid _scally cap_, of all things. What bad period film did this man just walk out of?

"Cor, you look all beat to hell!" the man swore, further reinforcing the emaciated man's belief that he had just fallen into a really bad period film. "Good thing we got to you when we did, eh?"

The emaciated man tried to speak, but found his throat incredibly parched. A particularly nasty side-effect of living in hell on earth for the past thirteen years. Still, he persisted, until a few words managed to get out. "…W-Where…w-who…?" he managed to rasp out.

His apparent saviour seemed to realize the difficulty he was having with speaking, so he quickly turned around to talk to someone else, apparently. "Hey, Brit-love, got any juice for our man back here?" he called out.

"Only water, Dan!" the emaciated man heard a woman call back. "Bosses' orders! Nothing more than water till he sees a doc!"

The man called Dan seemed to scoff in mock irritation at the answer, giving the emaciated man a commiserating look. "Sorry, friend, but none of the good stuff, it seems. Be back in a jiff," he said, before seemingly walking away from him.

The man lay back, staring up at the ceiling, only to note that it was strangely metallic—nothing like the prison cell he'd been used to for the past thirteen years. Moreover, who was that Dan fellow? He'd never seen anyone like him in prison, that's for sure—and he'd been in that blasted place to essentially put a name to _every_ prison guard in the blasted compound. It served as a way to get the tormenting voices in his head to stop compounding his horrifying guilt.

He was unable to ponder the identity of his apparent saviour or where he was for much longer, however, as Dan came back, a metallic canteen in hand. Carefully, he lifted the man into a sitting position against his pillow and placed the canteen on his lips, which the emaciated man opened thankfully as the cool water began to run into his mouth.

After a few gulps, the man already felt _much_ better, now that his throat had stopped inflicting as much pain as before. Dan seemed to grasp his relief, as he grinned toothily once more.

"Much better, eh?" he asked jocularly. "Must've been hell, where you been. I'm former Army myself, and I've _never_ seen a guy look as bad as you!"

"W-Who…" the man rasped out, still hurting a bit with every attempt he made to speak. "W-Who are you people…?"

Dan looked like he wanted to slap himself. "How could I forget?" he mumbled before pointing to himself with his thumb. "Name's Daniel. Daniel Livingstone, formerly a Sergeant in the Queen's Army; retired now," he introduced himself before jutting his thumb over his shoulder. "Up ahead is the missus, Britney Livingstone. We're…how did the bosses put it? We're the rescue party."

The man blinked. Hadn't he been set free a few days ago legally? Why would he need to be rescued. "W-Why?" he managed to ask, before his throat demanded his silence.

Dan blinked. "Why what?" he asked, confused. "Why did we save you?" at the man's nod, he laughed. "According to the bosses, you've been in some hell-hole for the past thirteen years, right? Well, they're the ones who sent all the evidence that was needed to get you set free."

The man blinked. Who would do such a thing for him? He was most certain that his name was mud in pretty much _all_ social circles, after all. Furthermore, if they had the evidence to exonerate him, why hadn't they done so earlier? Voicing this concern merely served to get a scowl from the usually jovial man.

"Aye, well, I've heard that the bosses have been stopping non-stop since they heard about your situation a decade ago," Dan informed his care. "From what I gather, no one believed them for just as long, so they had to gather as much irrefutable evidence as they could before finally convincing the authorities to let you go. Not very clear on the details themselves, but judging from what I heard, those bigwigs were determined to keep you locked up, even in the face of all the evidence."

Well, the lack of details would certainly explain how a _Muggle_, of all people, managed to get his hands on the most despised criminal in recent Mage history, barring Voldemort himself.

He stared as he watched Dan chuckle then. "Sorry, sorry," apologized the old veteran with a wave. "It's just, I can barely wrap my head around the fact that I, a former army man, a law abiding citizen, would be helping _Sirius Black_, of all people, get _smuggled_ out of the country."

"Y-You know w-who I am?" Sirius asked in a rasp.

Dan nodded. "It'd be a damn silly thing for me to get involved in this if I didn't, now wouldn't it?" he asked sardonically. "The missus' sister is a mage, or so she tells me. Personally, I can see it—never did like the harpy much, and there's always strange things going on around me when she's around."

Sirius could only stare at the whimsical explanation of his associated mage status. Still, his curiosity was barely satiated. "W-Where are we?" he asked weakly.

Dan grinned. "Location-wise? Dover, about to board the ferry for France. Specifically? In the back of a cargo truck," he said, before chuckling. "Gotta say, it was a damn pain calling in those favours to make sure they didn't check the container. Still, props to the bosses for getting the authorities to back off."

Sirius' curiosity was once again piqued by the identity of his mysterious benefactors. Who were these people who were going through so much trouble on his behalf? Moreover, why was it necessary to begin with? Dumbledore had promised to set him up at his old home, and Remus had even come forward to apologize for doubting his moral integrity—not that the old wolf needed to, as Sirius himself had doubted Remus to begin with, so he could understand; though, that didn't make him any less saddened by the apparent gap that had grown between him and his best friend.

He felt the whole room—now revealed to be merely a cargo container—shake. He had to admit, this was a novel experience. "So…who did you say you worked for?" he asked, feeling his throat lighten up on the continuous pain.

Dan grinned. "Sorry, not allowed to say."

Sirius groaned. This was going to be a _long_ trip.

* * *

**Liverpool College, United Kingdom, March 1995…**

"Hey, White?"

"Yes, John?" asked Harry patiently as he worked studiously on his History homework.

"Didn't you say you and Kat were over?" asked his best friend.

Harry sighed. "Let me guess, she's two tables over, one to the right?" he asked knowingly. "Perhaps sitting with Allison, Felicia, and Joan?"

John whistled appreciatively. "That's trippy, that is," he praised. "But yeah, she's there. Looks surprisingly…predatory for a girl who just broke up."

Harry sighed. "Tell me about it," he moaned, his writing stopping as he leaned his face into an open palm in frustration. "They _all_ seem to misunderstand the concept of breaking up."

John laughed. "Only _you_ would complain at the fact that your exes _still_ want to jump your bones, even after you've dumped them!"

"Look, there was _no_ chemistry there!" Harry defended himself. "It practically felt like having servants at my beck and call, not a girlfriend!"

John snorted. "Yes, because what bloke in his right mind _wouldn't_ want to be waited on by pretty girls?" he asked sardonically. Harry glared at his friend without any real venom.

"I'd rather have a girl who's my intellectual equal, thank you very much," he said, perhaps a tad too loud. Almost immediately, squeals seemed to emanate from quite a few tables, and Harry had to groan as he let his head fall onto the table.

John held no pity for his best friend, however. "Well done, old chap!" he said gleefully as he watched girl after girl seemingly bull-rush the library stacks. "Looks like the teachers are going to _love_ you for inspiring every girl aged thirteen to fifteen to become a bookworm."

Harry groaned. "Oh, _come on!_" he complained as he powerlessly watched every girl his age or younger in the room suddenly decide they wanted to become nuclear physicists on his behalf. "When am I _ever_ going to learn to stop saying these things out loud?"

John cackled at the delicious situation his friend had buried himself in. It only grew further when he saw a familiar face stomp right up to their table, a scowl aimed right at Harry.

"WHITE!" Elicia Eisenheim all but yelled indignantly, shutting up the librarian with a death glare that made the poor old man look away in fear. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!"

"I didn't _mean_ to!" he protested weakly, his hands raised in a placating fashion. "It…just slipped!"

The furious girl wasn't easily tamed, however, and slammed her open palms on the table. "As if it's not hard enough to compete with _you_ for the top spot in academics, you now have to turn almost _three generations_ of students into potential applicants for Mensa?!" she ranted.

"Ellie…" Harry tried soothingly. Despite their often highly pronounced rivalry, he and Elicia were, deep down, more akin to close friends than actual rivals.

Elicia didn't want to hear it, however. "Don't Ellie me, White!" she hissed at him, fully cognizant that Harry's fans were beginning to notice the dressing down she was giving him. "Fix it!"

"Hey, leave White alone!" they heard a girl call out nearby.

"What's the matter, Eisenheim, worried we'll take your place?"

"Could it be that she actually thinks she can top White? As if!"

While these comments were flying, Harry and John were, for their part, sweating profusely as they caught a front-row seat to Elicia's reaction…and it wasn't pretty. Her open palms on the table, for one, had curled into tight fists, growing whiter by the second due to the lack of blood circulation there. Her fluffy hair had also fallen to cover her expression, which meant only one thing—she was _pissed_. Harry audibly whimpered.

"E-Ellie…?" Harry tried tentatively.

John, for his part, scooted away from his best friend, deliberately leaving him to the wolves…or greatly ticked off she-wolf, in this case.

"…On second thought, White, _don't_ fix it," Elicia eventually said, her head rising a bit so that she could meet his eyes. He gulped at the fierce glare she was giving him. "It'll be _that_ much more worth it when I _crush_ you."

Meekly, Harry could do naught but nod, seeing as that was probably the best way to get out of this situation without getting a kick in the nads.

* * *

**Liverpool College, United Kingdom, September 1995…**

"You actually _called_ for them?" asked John, quite surprised. "What happened? Did you suddenly decide you were a masochist?"

Harry glared at his best friend, motioning towards the young boy at his side. "Please don't make such insinuations within earshot of my brother, John," he half-asked/half-demanded from his best friend.

Young William blinked a few times in confusion. "What's a mas…masa…masochist?" the boy tried the unfamiliar word out a few times.

"Someone who enjoys being hurt," Harry said automatically.

"Your brother," John then decided to add, completely deadpan. Harry thwacked him on the back of the head.

"Stop telling him lies!"

William ignored the byplay and looked up at his brother. "You enjoy being hurt, big brother?"

Harry sighed. "No, I don't, Will," he assured his younger sibling. "John…has a weird sense of humour. You'll understand one day. Then maybe you can explain it to me," he added sardonically as he eyed his best friend, who was making a big show of 'how hard White had hit him,' even though they both knew Harry had been holding back. _A lot_.

William giggled. "Your friend is weird!"

Harry sighed, palming his face. "Don't I know it," he muttered, before catching sight of what was arguably his _other_ best friend in the whole campus, even though she would deny it to her grave.

Thankfully, he didn't have to call out to her, as she had caught sight of him and John, and had been curious about the younger boy between them.

"Hey John, White," the two older boys ignored the venom with which she pronounced Harry's name. It was more of a game at this point than actual enmity. "Who's the runt?"

William glared up at the girl. "I'm not a runt!" he protested.

Elicia raised an eyebrow at the little boy's defiance. "Well, he's got spirit," she noted before turning her attention back to the older boys. "So, really, who is he?"

John answered for Harry. "He's White's kid brother," he said plainly.

Elicia stared at Harry for what seemed was an eternity. "There are _more_ of you?" she asked incredulously.

Harry mock glared at her. "Is that so wrong?" he asked petulantly.

"You _really _want an answer to that?"

William looked between the two for a moment, absorbing the way his brother and this girl were interacting, before coming to a conclusion he felt he needed to validate. "Are you two together?"

It was amazing to John Lyles how one innocent question had such a resounding effect on his two closest friends…and the horde of Harry's pursuing admirers that had just rounded the corner. His best friend was staring at his younger brother with wide eyes, his mouth opening and closing intermittently, but with no sound coming out of it. Elicia, for her part, was thunderstruck and seemingly frozen in place, a look of horror permanently painted on her face. The horde of admirers, for their part, seemed just as frozen at the younger boy's question.

Thus given this amply amusing situation, John burst out in hysterical laughter, even doubling over as he felt the wind from his lungs start to run out from the constant, exhaling laughter.

William cocked his head to the side a bit, confused by everyone's reactions. "What?"

This just served to send John into another burst of frenzied laughter, actually dropping him to the ground as he held his stomach, alternating between laughing and whimpering from the pain.

Harry was the first one to snap out of his stupor and looked down at his brother carefully. "Will, why would you think such a thing?" he asked carefully. "Elicia and I are most definitely _not_ together."

He ignored the collective sigh of relief from the horde. Elicia herself, however, seemed about ready to kill his younger brother for the mistaken assumption.

William was thankfully innocently unaware of his impending doom. "Well, dad told Izzy and I stories about when he and mom were in school, and it kinda sounded like how you two were acting," he laid out his child-like logic.

Harry palmed his face at the obvious link between he and Elicia and his parents. Of _course_ William would make such a childish link…it was pretty much the essence of ape-like imitation, which was how children learned most things.

Though she had come to the same conclusion, Elicia was far more proactive about her discontent. Squatting down to his eye level, she fixed William with a glare. "Look here, brat: I am _not_ your boneheaded brother's girlfriend," she hissed at him. "He is my _rival_, got it? _Rival_."

William once again cocked his head to the side. "Dad said that was what mom used to call dad in school," he said innocently.

John couldn't help the subsequent burst of laughter, though from the look of his face, he was in danger of passing out from lack of oxygen to the brain. Elicia glared at him angrily and kicked him lightly on the shin for the display.

"Oh, shut up!" she hissed at him, her face tomato-red with a hefty blush as she walked away from the trio. Still, before she was out of speaking range, she looked over her shoulder at Harry and glared viciously at him. "We'll have words later, _White_."

With that, she stomped away, leaving behind a slightly trembling Harry—who feared Elicia's future reprisals—and a twitching John, who was torn between whimpering from the pain of Elicia's kick or keep on laughing at the absurdity of it all.

Predictably, he laughed.

* * *

**Liverpool, United Kingdom, February 1996…**

"Speak of this to _anyone_, and I _will_ neuter you, White,"

Harry gulped as he tentatively held the hand of Elicia Eisenheim, the both of them out for a nice walk through the city that had become their home for the past six years. The worst part of the threat was the fact that he _knew_, for a _fact_, that she _would_.

"That ashamed of me, are you?" he asked humorously.

Elicia's head spun so fast he momentarily wondered whether or not she got whiplash from the act. "You know that's not it," she said seriously.

Harry gave her an understanding look. "I know, I know…I'm just teasing you," he assured her, before chuckling at a not-that-distant memory. "Still, hard to believe that Will was actually _spot on_ a year ago."

Elicia harrumphed. "The brat's perceptive, I'll give him that," she conceded. "Even if he _did_ get the timeframe wrong," she gave him a sidelong glance. "Still can't believe it took you nearly _three months_ after he made his little observation to ask me out…and in such a _lame_ way, too!"

"You looked like you wanted to _kill_ me for the longest time after that!" he defended himself. "Besides, what's wrong with how I asked you out?"

Elicia glared at him. "Oh, I don't know…maybe it was the part where you _actually_ _said_, 'Hey, Elicia, err…I was thinking….maybe we should give what William said a try?'" she mock-imitated him. "What girl wants to hear _that_?"

Harry sighed. "Okay, so it wasn't Shakespeare, but give a guy a break, Ellie!"

Elicia looked away. "I am," she told him, before looking back at him with a wide, content smile. "We've known each other for what…five years now? I know you better than to take that sort of thing to heart."

Harry smiled at her and leaned over to kiss her on the cheek, which, much to both their surprise, she allowed to happen, causing her to blush cutely when his lips made contact with her cheek.

The two walked in silence for a while, taking in the sights and occasionally stopping for a treat. Soon enough, they found themselves on a park bench outside Liverpool Cathedral. Harry had his arm around Elicia's shoulders, with the other leaning on the bench's back. Elicia, for her part, seemed to be nursing a plastic cup of hot coco.

"You realize this is going to get out eventually, right?" Harry finally asked as he leaned his head back and looked up at the cloudless sky. "You and me, that is."

Elicia nodded her head. "I know," she admitted. "Kinda hard to keep this sort of thing secret," she added with a weak smile.

"John's going to _kill_ me for keeping this from him," Harry groaned. "William will probably be _intolerable_."

Elicia laughed, making his stomach twist a little. He loved her laugh—it wasn't loud and braying like John's, but rather soft and melodic. "You're worried about your best friend killing you? _I'm_ worried about your adoring fans killing _me_," she reminded him.

The two laughed lightly at the thought of their respective threats harming them, before slowly descending into silence.

Harry broke the silence again. "I've decided," he said suddenly, making Elicia freeze up under his arm. "I'm going to join the Army when I'm done with my Bachelor's," he informed her.

Elicia sighed and leaned into him, enjoying the warmth of his presence over the cold weather. "I _still_ don't approve, you know," she reminded him. "You've got so much potential, White…why waste it on the Army?"

Harry was stubborn, however. "You know what I want, Ellie…the Army's the best way for me to get it," he told her.

"Plenty of politicians have managed getting into Number Ten without the need to become trained killers," she reminded him before sighing again. "But I'm guessing there's more to it than just getting Army credentials, huh?"

Harry nodded, bringing his arm to pull her closer to him. "Perceptive as always," he praised her. "I need the Army's backing for what I want, Ellie. Political power isn't enough here…I need raw, violent power to back me up."

Normally, that sort of comment would have insinuated his desire to become a dictator, but Elicia knew him better after all these years. So, instead, she made the link to the one thing she could never truly grasp about her boyfriend's life. "It's got to do with why your parents are still living on the Continent, doesn't it?" she asked perceptively.

Harry smiled proudly. "Yes," he answered simply.

Elicia smiled sadly as she curled into his chest. "Well, I can't fault you for putting family first," she said sadly. "I wish I could, but I can't…since I'm doing the same."

Harry looked down at the girl in his arms with a raised eyebrow. "Aren't you going to ask me why they're on the Continent?" he asked curiously.

"Would you tell me?" she asked right back.

Harry was silent for a moment. "…I see your point," he conceded, eliciting a giggle from Elicia. They remained in their current position for quite a bit thereafter, simply enjoying each other's presence without the need for further conversation.

It wasn't until Harry absently noted that it was getting a little darker that he realized they needed to get back to the dormitory soon. "It's getting late," he told her, nudging her a bit to get her attention.

Elicia sighed. "Too bad…it's not like we can do this often," she lamented. "Not without blowing our cover, anyway."

"Would it be so bad?" he asked suddenly, before his mind was able to filter out the question. "I mean, sure, the backlash would be painful for a while…but it'd be worth it, right?"

Elicia smiled indulgently at her boyfriend and then, very deliberately, poked him on the forehead with her index finger. "Of course not, you berk!" she chastised him. "You need them for whatever scheme that wonderfully brilliant mind of yours has cooked up, and I like having _some_ peace and quiet in my life."

Harry laughed weakly at how direct his girlfriend was. "…As always, you're absolutely right, Ellie. Makes one wonder who's the genius of us two."

Elicia smiled up at him and kissed him on the nose. "That's easy," she said pulling back. "We both are."

Harry laughed.

* * *

**Derby Hall, United Kingdom, 1997…**

The knocking sound on the door was the first thing to wake Harry up in the morning. The second thing to fully get him cognizant was the fact that he was not, in fact, in his own dorm room. The _third_ thing that served to make his brain practically fry itself from an overload was the fact that _there was a girl in bed with him_.

Immediately, all three quite valid points connected with each other, leading Harry to make a very logical, and at the same time, very _scary_ realization.

He was in a…he looked around…girl's room, in her bed, with her beside him, as someone—probably the tutor in charge of the Hall—was coming for a visit.

Well _fuck_.

Which, ironically, was also a fantastic description of what he'd done overnight.

Of course, to aggravate matters, he felt his companion in bed stir within the sheets as the knocking intensified.

"Mmm…_White…_"

And that was when Harry's mind _really_ kicked into gear and the memory of last night came back in full. Looking down, it was only confirmed. Curly, golden hair? Check. Heart-shaped face? Check. _Girlfriend of a year?_ Check. He felt two something's press into his side. B-cup breasts? _Definitely_ check.

Which all amounted to a single conclusion: he was a dead man. Or, more accurately, once the person on the other side of the door—whoever it was—came in, he was a dead man. Between Elicia's embarrassed rage, the school's hardliner policy against sex in the dorms, and his own parents' likely negative reaction to the event, he was pretty certain he'd need a closed casket funeral when they were done with him.

Maybe god loved him, though, as the knocking did eventually stop, and he heard a mature voice—holy _crap_ that was a tutor!—mutter, "She's probably still asleep," before walking away.

Letting out a shuddering breath as he felt his heart start up again, he was quickly beset by another problem—his blood flow was not working to his advantage. Instead, it seemed to be going in the exact _opposite_ direction he wanted it to go. The fact that his girlfriend was lying naked next to him—covered only in a _sheet_—did _not_ make things easier on him.

Still, there was no way of getting out of his current predicament, considering the vice grip Elicia had on him. Somehow, during their post-coital sleep, she seemed to have decided that _he_ was a better pillow than the actual one Harry was sleeping on. So, instead of uselessly trying to crawl out of the grip—which would have only woken Elicia up and brought him into a world of pain for having done so—he decided to review the events that had led to his current situation.

First, he remembered that John had told him and Elicia, right after one of their 'spats,' that there would be a party at a nearby club. As none of them were technically of age to order alcoholic drinks, John had suggested they go simply to hang out.

In hindsight, Harry _really_ should've known better.

Next thing he knew, he was drinking some of the foulest pop _ever_, and before he could even confront John about it, Elicia had giggled drunkenly, grabbed his face and smashed her lips onto his, to the shock of damn near everyone who knew them. After that, _everything_ went downhill.

John, being John, was only really shocked, after which he laughed uproariously and patted Harry on the back, giving him his sympathies for landing such a firecracker as a girlfriend. Others, mostly Harry's unofficial fan club, mostly lamented loudly how someone else had beaten them to the punch, having remarkably matured in their outlook over the years…especially considering the amount of girlfriends he'd gone through before mysteriously deciding to go celibate a year ago. Well, this certainly explained things.

The rest of the night was a complete blur to Harry, as he vaguely remembered drinking a bit more of the foul tasting liquid, practically grinding against Elicia on the dance floor, and then stumbling drunkenly out of the pub towards the dorm…where all he could remember was a searing kiss at her dorm room, a whirlwind of clothing, and then nothing except the sensation of absolute pleasure.

Harry palmed his face, thanking whatever deity there be that his younger brother hadn't seen him get drunk, or outside Elicia's door. Either would have landed him in hot water with the parents.

Hell, no matter _how_ he cut this, it was a bad idea all around. Sure, he loved Elicia—even if he couldn't tell her that to her face. The problem wasn't lack of affection…in a twisted, funny way it was the complete opposite. He loved Elicia so much that the very thought that he _would_ have to break up with her was killing him, more so now that they had consummated their relationship on a carnal level.

The worst part was that he knew his brilliant girlfriend would reach the same conclusion…which would only lead to moments of horrible awkwardness between the two. Everything would have been _so_ much simpler had last night not happened.

"…Huh…" he heard a soft, feminine voice exclaim at his side, letting him know that Elicia had just woken up. "…not how I imagined my first time being."

Harry was surprised she was, so far, taking this as well as she seemed to be.

"Remind me to kill Lyles when I see him next," she then added, and Harry's original idea of her reaction returned full force. "Slipping alcohol in our drinks…I swear I'll _beat_ some sense into him!"

While Harry might have been worried before, he was now bordering on afraid, as Elicia had just ranted about killing his best friend in a completely calm and collected manner. There had not been a single raised intonation in her voice, which sort of scared him.

"…Ellie?" he tried tentatively.

"…I'm not mad at you," she assured him after a moment. "We were both drunk. And, let's face it, if the alcohol was any indication…we both wanted this."

"…This is surprisingly tolerant of you…" he noted warily, as if waiting for the moment when she would beat him up for having taken her virginity.

She looked up from her place on his chest and gave a weak smile. "Don't be fooled," she told him. "I'm freaking out, Francis…I _really_ am."

Harry sighed and wrapped his arms around her, desperately trying to ignore her very obvious nakedness. "I know, Ellie…so am I," he admitted, the full impact of her confession very apparent to him, especially considering she used his first name, as opposed to his last name as usual.

"This…complicates things…" she whimpered into his chest.

Harry sighed; she'd come to the same conclusion he had…the one he detested above all things. "It does," he agreed.

"I'm going to _kill_ Lyles," she said vehemently, eliciting a throaty chuckle from Harry as he tried to push back the tears that threatened to form.

"Y…You know why he even took us to that party?" he asked.

"…No," she admitted softly.

"Papers came in this morning…I got into Welbeck," he informed her, his voice nearly breaking by the end of his admission. It was all he could do to put one arm over his eyes as he smiled tragically.

"Oh…" she replied, sounding just as heartbroken as he was trying _not_ to sound.

Harry felt his chest get wet, and knew his girlfriend had broken just as he had. "It must be raining outside," he mumbled.

"It's not…" she mumbled right back.

Harry shook his head vehemently. "No…it's raining," he said with determination, his teeth visibly clenched.

Elicia looked up from her place at his face, only to see mildly glistening streaks at the side of his eyes, which were otherwise covered by his arm. Smiling at his thinly veiled attempt at retaining some form of macho attitude, she lay her head back on his chest and nodded, letting her own frustrated tears fall on his chest uninterrupted.

"Yeah…it's raining."

* * *

**Welbeck College, United Kingdom, 1997…**

"Welcome to Welbeck, recruits!" greeted the man in the standard red dress uniform of the British Armed Forces. "You are all here because you have been selected by the various boards you chose to approach to become _the_ very best officers of Her Majesty's Armed Forces, or Her Distinguished Civil Service!"

Harry barely had one ear on the instructor's speech, his mind too focused on Elicia, whom he had barely just left at the gate of Welbeck College. It had been their final goodbye. The day before the new term was to start, they had gone to her hotel room and made love for what seemed an interminable amount of time, always whispering "I love you" to each other with every thrust or moan.

"Here at Welbeck, we emphasize the very best qualities that _all_ future members of Her Majesty's distinguished services must uphold!" the instructor kept going. "Leadership! Skill! Responsibility! Honour! What you learn here, cadets, will get you through your life no matter what path you take! More importantly, it will keep you _alive_!"

Harry's mind could not be taken off Elicia, however—something he knew he would have to work on at some point. Still, it was _damned_ hard to get the beautiful, brilliant, and feisty blonde out of his head. Logically speaking, she was _everything_ he wanted in a woman. She wasn't a yes-woman and unwilling to point out his flaws…rather, she sometimes took an inordinate amount of pleasure in doing so! She loved to tease him, and loved being teased right back. She was his intellectual equal, and could predict much of his own train of thought before he had even gotten there.

But in the end, it wasn't to be…and the reason was their dreams. The dreams and hopes that Harry and she had were unfortunately not on the same path…or even near to each other. Harry was determined to walk down a lonely path to power, willing to wallow in the mud and filth of politics and war, while she wasn't. She wanted to keep learning, to discover and create. Their personalities might have matched, but their dreams were completely incompatible. Eventually, one of them would have had to compromise, and neither was willing to do so. Both of them had too much riding on their dreams to just give up, and they both knew it.

So they did the logical thing and ended their relationship.

It hurt like hell, and even now, Harry had to keep his poker face in check, lest he burst into tears at how much it was hurting to know he would never be with his precious Ellie, but he knew it was for the greater good. This way, both of them would be able to go for their dreams without being held back by emotional attachments. It was the logical thing to do.

So why did it hurt so much?

"Welcome to Welbeck," the instructor said again, this time with a predatory grin. "You think you've seen hell? You've seen nothing yet."

* * *

**Cumbria, United Kingdom, 1998…**

Harry wheezed as he and his section ground to a halt after a day of trekking. When he'd first applied to Welbeck, he'd been told that the Cumbria exercise would, at most, be a two-week camp during the summer. He had _never_ expected things to have turned out the way they currently were.

But then, no one had predicted the instability on the Continent to accelerate as much as it had. In Spain, there were whispers of Ultranationalists gaining a _lot_ of ground among the common folk, even though the higher ups everywhere else dismissed them as mere relics of Franco's era. The tension between France and Germany was also heating up, as both countries fought a diplomatic war over how best to approach the increasing crisis in the Balkans, which were well on their way to outright war. It didn't help that Germany, still only newly reunited in 1991, was suffering under the weight of rebuilding East Germany to West German standards. With the French refusing to support the German reconstruction efforts, the process had been slow and painful, especially as the Soviet Union, the bogeyman that the Yanks had been using to keep everyone in line, had vanished.

As a result, Britain had militarized to levels yet unprecedented. Security was much more important now than individual freedom, which was something that shocked many would-be philosophers who had wanted to live in the land of Locke, John Stuart Mill, and Adam Smith. Propaganda posters had begun to line up practically every street in the UK, boasting the virtues of military service, and quite a few youths fell for the message, increasing the intake at the recruitment centres by nearly 200%.

Thus, as a result, Welbeck College had followed its governmental overlords' commands and further militarized the curriculum, such that Harry was now stuck in a field simulation of small-squad assaults on elevated positions. Something that, in a better world, he would have probably only been asked to do at Sandhurst.

Still, he wasn't about to complain. The mind-numbing increase in exercise and academics had served well to get him out of his depression over breaking up with Elicia, with whom he stayed in ready contact. She would _daily_ send him letters, all handwritten, to tell him how his little brother was doing. Apparently, having been his last girlfriend, she had somehow been unofficially nominated the "mother hen" of his unofficial fan club, so they took to heart her commands to watch over William. Not that he needed it, she told him; William was exceedingly bright, though thankfully devoid of any malevolent guile. Lyles, for his part, was all too eager to play the part of proxy big brother towards William, which filled him with equal parts amusement and worry.

"Penny for your thoughts, sir?" piped up one of the 'soldiers' under his command.

Harry smiled lopsidedly. "Hmm? Oh, it's nothing, Lee," he assured his classmate.

"Wouldn't be a lass, would it?" asked Lee with a perverted smile. "Fine lad like yourself, sir, I'm sure you've been quite popular."

Harry laughed, even as one of the female members of the section decided to thwack Lee on the arm as punishment for his perverted comments. "Close," he admitted, much to the surprise of his section, who had only ever really seen Harry in his morose state. "My ex, to be more precise."

Lee looked confused to all hell. "She dump you, sir?" he asked tactlessly.

"Subtle as a sledgehammer, Lee," Malcolm O'Brian, another section-mate, commented with a sigh.

Harry laughed and waved away O'Brian's concern. "It's fine, it's fine," he assured them. "But no, Lee, she didn't dump me. We agreed to part ways because…well…honestly, that's none of your business," he said with a smile. He pretended to ignore the twin sighs of relief that came from two of the three female members of his section.

"Well then, if we're quite done asking about the CO's love life," the third female member of the group, Alicia Donahue, snarked, "Then could we _please_ get back to the plan?"

Harry nodded, and motioned to Lee. "Lee, map," he ordered.

Complying immediately with the order, Lee had the map of the area flat on the ground in seconds. Harry pointed out a place on the mountain they were on. "This is where we are…roughly speaking," he stated, before pointing at a higher location on the map. "This is the enemy target. So far, our intel suggests the only way to the target is through a direct approach…but as our more vulgar classmates might put it, that option is 'fucking retarded,'" his interpretation of the route drew a few muffled chuckles from his section. "Now, exercise records indicate that the time record for this exercise is set at thirty hours, which, given how long it's taken us to get to this point, and what's left to march up, it physically impossible, unless there's an easier route than climbing the mountain face."

Harry looked at Donahue. "Did you manage to grab one of the pamphlets like I asked?"

The girl nodded and took out said pamphlet out of her kit, then handed it over to Harry, who spread it out over the official map of the region. He smiled almost instantly. "I thought so," he declared, pointing out a red line that seemed to circumvent the cliff face, but would be _much _easier in climbing. "It's not something most people know, unless they live in the area."

O'Brian looked at the legend underneath the map and read the meaning of the line's colour. "Sir, it also says that the path is not recommended for beginner hikers," he pointed out.

Harry grinned. "Good thing we got all that trekking exercise back at the College then, huh?" he said, brushing away the man's concerns. "If we're careful—and that's been bred into us from day one at the College—then we shouldn't have any trouble getting around the target's defences. Might even make us a new record!"

Donahue looked at her watch. "We'd need to move out _right now_ to do that, sir," she reminded him.

Harry looked at his section, noting their fatigue, and realizing that he was tired as well. "Well? What'd ya say, lads?" he asked. "Show the brass that we're the best, or camp it out and try tomorrow?"

Lee grinned, seemingly taking the role of spokesperson for the group, since they all seemed exasperatedly resigned to what they were about to do…all of them with smiles, however.

"Do you even need to ask, sir?"

Harry grinned and nodded, tossing the now-folded pamphlet back to Donahue and noting that Lee had appropriated the map once again. "Great! Section, move out!" he ordered.

"Sir, yes, sir!"

* * *

**London, United Kingdom, 1999…**

"…HE'S DONE IT!" the announcer said excitedly. "HE'S ACTUALLY DONE IT! THE ROOKIE CHALLENGER HAS TAKEN DOWN THE THREE-YEAR CHAMPION!"

Harry was breathing heavily as he held his fencing sword's tip right off his opponent's mask, his forehead completely covered in sweat at the amazing duel he had just won…even if by the edge of his teeth. It had been an exhilarating duel, to be sure, but Harry had practically given up after a few minutes into it, as it was completely obvious that he was outclassed.

What he hadn't expected, however, was that his opponent had sensed this too, and as a result decided to take it easier in a fit of arrogance—arrogance that cost him his title, Harry noted.

Still, Harry himself could not keep the grin off his own face as he absorbed the fact that he took down a professional fencer. He had been training hard since entering Welbeck College, and although his teachers had sworn up and down the gym that he was a damned prodigy, Harry was less certain about his skills. Now, it was a little hard to disprove them, and he felt mounting pride in his victory.

In such a state, it was only natural for him to raise his sword in victory, and he closed his eyes as he felt the crowd go wild at the gesture. Slowly, he took off the protective mask and held it under his arm, allowing the crowd to get a first-hand glimpse at how much this duel had taken out of him. Needless to say, the floppy, sweat-drenched look, sword raised and helmet under his armpit, made him out to look like a triumphant conqueror. He felt like one too, thanks to the wild cheering in the stands—which, admittedly, were populated mostly by his fellow graduates from Welbeck and his friends from Liverpool College.

Either way, it was a damn good way of seeing how many people had his back…and he was proud to say it was quite a bit. It wasn't just students among his supporters, but instructors from both Liverpool and Welbeck as well. Just as much among the staff as among the pupils, Harry was considered a rising star—a prodigy in warfare and leadership. He never flaunted it, no matter how much his few enemies said he did, and when he did show his skills, they _almost_ always resulted in his victory. He could still lose, but as time went on and his skills grew, it became harder and harder to force that loss onto him.

Hell, he had even managed to convince the Sandhurst admissions board to let him first get an undergraduate degree at Oxford before enlisting as an official officer cadet. Considering the amount of praise his instructors at both Welbeck and Liverpool were willing to shower on him, they had been hard pressed to say no, especially since every recommendation they got for him made it clear they were willing to bet their jobs on his worth in the Armed Forces. That was quite an endorsement for anyone to have, especially with the state in constant military alert.

It was once he was outside, however, that he felt even more eagerness. He had told Elicia about his entry into the finals, and she'd promised to come watch. It was, in hindsight, probably the _dumbest_ move he'd ever made, considering the fact that he needed to get over her, but at the same time, he knew it wouldn't be right to exclude her from such an important even in his development.

Thus, he couldn't help but feel crushing disappointment when, waiting outside the locker room, only John, William, and Jeremy, and Alicia were waiting for him. Seeing the expression on his brother's face, William quickly made the connection and looked at his older brother apologetically.

"Sorry, brother," he apologized on Elicia's behalf. "She said her work at the university was probably going to keep her a little later than she expected," he explained.

Harry nodded morosely. That made sense…she did have her own goals to work towards, after all. In fact, that was why they had broken up to begin with, right? Harry suppressed the aching feeling in his chest and put on a content smile for his friends. "That's alright…you guys are here, right?" he said jovially, though William wasn't buying the act. Even so, he played along, if only for his brother's sake.

Hell, he was also playing along for Elicia's sake, in a way. He was fully aware that his brother's ex-girlfriend had been a total mess after Harry had left for Welbeck, and to an extent, still was. John had mentioned that he'd heard her crying in her dorm room several times, and when someone had idiotically badmouthed her boyfriend after the breakup—presumably as a way to hit on her—she'd hurt him so hard she actually _had_ to be punished by the school for it—a first in her academic record. Personally, the fourteen-year-old couldn't understand why the two had broken up. In his mind, they were perfect for each other, and no matter what they both said to try and explain their situation to him, it sounded hollow to his ears. Still, his parents hadn't bred family loyalty into him for nothing, and so he kept faithful to both his brother and the woman he _knew_ his brother loved.

"So…" Jeremy spoke up, desperately trying to wash away the rising awkwardness. "Booze at the nearest pub?"

"I'm underage," William said deadpan.

"Sure, why not?" Harry agreed, seemingly ignoring his brother's protest. He needed a drink. Now.

* * *

**London, United Kingdom, June 2002…**

Harry sighed as he roamed the streets of London with his hands in his pockets, bored out of his skull. Another attempt to reconnect with Elicia on an emotional level had failed badly after the golden haired scientist-in-training had remembered she had results from an experiment coming in soon, and had excused herself right as their food had been arriving at the restaurant. Needless to say, he had not been in the mood to partake in the restaurant's doubtless delicious food, and had merely paid the bill and left, appreciating the sympathetic look on the waiter face as he all but rushed out the restaurant.

This epic failure had just been one of many as he vowed to try to regain the closeness he had with Elicia during the Liverpool College days. It helped enormously that it was a day off for him, but for some reason unknown to him, Elicia didn't _seem_ to have _any_ such thing.

At first, he'd dreaded that she was brushing him off for another guy—in which case he'd vowed he'd kill the bloke and vaporize the body with his much more powerful wandless fire magic—but William and John had been quick to disprove that theory. In fact, they had mentioned that every time he called her to set up such a "non-date," as apparently both he and Elicia called it, Elicia was the happiest they'd ever seen her. It truly seemed like she was just _that_ forgetful about how booked her schedule was.

Even though that tid-bit of information always got him in a good mood, however, he was still aching for a good drink to get his mind off Elicia. Looking up, his eyes locked onto what _looked_ like a dilapidated pub further ahead. He knew better than to judge by appearances, however. This _was_ London, after all, and pubs came in every shape and size. Sighing, he entered the pub and went straight for the counter, his head still bowed depressingly.

"Hey there, stranger," greeted the barkeep. "What can I get ya?"

"Strongest you've got, two shots," Harry mumbled out his order. Had he looked up, he would have seen the surprised look on the man's face, followed by a shrug. Soon enough, there were two shot glasses in front of Harry, both almost full to the brim with brownish-orange liquid that Harry swore he'd never seen. Shrugging, he picked one up figuring it was some sort of specialty brew and downed the shot in one go.

And then promptly wished he hadn't done such a fool thing as his throat, stomach, liver, _and_ brain all protested at the sheer power of the foreign liquid. Hell, Harry was willing to bet his throat was _scorched_.

"W-What the _hell_ is _in_ this?" Harry gasped out, bumping himself in the chest a few times. "_Gasoline_?"

The barkeep gave a roaring laugh at the reaction—it was pretty much the same with any newcomer to the joys of Firewhiskey. "First time drinking the ol' Fire, eh?" he asked knowingly. "Can't say I've seen you around here either, stranger. New to town?"

Harry looked at the man askance. Was the man really claiming to know _everyone_ in London? That seemed a little farfetched. "Kinda…I was here in London on business," he said smoothly. "But that didn't end well. Figured I'd drink my woes away."

The barkeep nodded sympathetically. "Well, I gotta say, it's something else to think that wizards _outside_ of England have heard of my pub!" he exclaimed, ignoring the slight freeze in his customer's body language. "You can call me Tom, I'm the owner of this here fine establishment!"

Harry nervously shook the man's hand, doing a wonderful job at keeping his anxiety under wraps. Could it really be that he had, completely by accident, _stumbled_ on the very society that had practically pushed his family into self-imposed exile? Was this a sign of heavenly goodwill, or one of punishment for abandoning Elicia in favour of his bloodstained path of ambition?

Almost as a nervous reaction, he snapped the fingers of his free hand, emitting a very inconspicuous spark that passed unnoticed by all. If push came to shove, he might have to actually commit grand arson to escape, he figured. Thank _goodness_ for those wandless exercises.

Harry carefully calculated his options for this unforeseen event. Here he was, in an honest-to-god magic establishment, with a potential way of accessing the mage world that he so wanted to crush. What should he do? Walk away, and reject this segregated world's teachings in the process? Take as much from them as he could and use their own knowledge against them at a future date? Inform his parents and let them decide? There was, after all, more at stake here than his own identity. If anyone found out that Harry Potter and Francis White were the same person, it would blow his family's cover as well. He could not allow that.

Still, the temptation was incredibly strong to ask for a way into the infamous Diagon Alley and raid their bookstores for valuable knowledge that he could then undermine them with. Not to mention the fact that the books he already had on magic might be out of date, thereby undermining his own training. That was unacceptable; he would _not_ be weaker than any mage. Especially not if he wanted to enforce his will on them.

He was briefly reminded of the SAS' own motto, and felt a smile grow on his face, which the barkeep fortunately took as pleasure in meeting such a "distinguished" man as himself. He could never have guessed just how far from the truth he was.

"Ah, of course we've heard all about this fine pub," Harry assured the man with a charming smile. "One of the entries into Diagon Alley, if I'm not mistaken?" His intonation clearly showed that he did not believe he was.

Tom, sadly, had not the guile to see through his customer's wiles. "Of course!" he said proudly. "In fact, since you're new around here, why don't I show you?"

Harry smiled. "_Much_ appreciated, sir," he thanked the barkeep.

Seeing the procedure to open the portal into Diagon Alley was just as intriguing to Harry as the infamous Alley itself. Putting everything he saw to memory, he thanked Tom and quickly made his way into Diagon Alley, first hitting the bank to exchange his regular bank notes into mage currency, and then hitting every bookstore he could find. Pretty soon, he was carrying several bags each weighing about twenty pounds, and to his astonishment, they weighed _nothing_ at all to him. His militarized mind couldn't help but think of the hundreds of way such a spell could be used to enhance _a lot_ of conventional weaponry.

He was about to call it a day—a _very_ successful day—when his eye caught sight of what seemed like a magical gem shop. While he was personally uninterested in jewellery, his mind immediately thought up of Elicia, and her potential joy if she got such a trinket. Hell, he'd _level_ the Alley if it meant she'd smile at him. The scary thing was, to his mind, that he _could_.

So, given this motivation, he quickly made his way into the store, where he was regaled by the look of hundreds of different looking gems of all sizes and colours. Thinking back on Elicia's likes and dislikes, he quickly ruled out red and yellow gems, since she admitted to hating her hair colour because it made everyone have lower expectations of her, and the dislike for the colour red was mainly because it reminded her of blood. Instead, he settled for a necklace with a blue sapphire, and jade earrings. When he was about to pay, however, he noticed something else…something intriguing. There was a small, transparent crystal growth sitting among the more precious gems, but was seemingly going unnoticed by every customer that went by it.

Following his eye, the cashier grinned. "Ah, nice eye," he praised. "Not many see the true worth of a fuel crystal," he noted.

Harry's attention was immediately on the man. "Fuel crystal?" he asked curiously. The cashier nodded.

"Admittedly, it's not a rare gem," the man conceded. "However, its use in our society is widespread to a level most don't even think about. Why, where do you think Floo Powder comes from? Contrary to popular belief, it doesn't appear at the wave of a wand; no sir, it's a refined product of fuel crystals."

Harry's eyes widened considerably at the revelation. He was well aware of Floo Powder and its widespread use in magical society, but he had been unable to conceive of a rational explanation as to how it worked. With an actual fuel crystal in his possession, he could perhaps deduce the inner workings of the Powder and even create it for his own use, or find other uses for it!

"How much for it?" Harry asked quickly. The cashier seemed stunned that the young man before him wanted such a universally rejected gem, but shrugged off his shock with a smile.

"Well…since no one else seems to be in a hurry to buy them, how about I sell you two of them for…say…two galleons, fifty-seven sickles, and fourteen knuts?" he proposed.

Harry had force himself not to whistle at the price. He knew the other gems he bought each cost about one galleon each, which, thanks to the exchange rate, came to about £20. However, in terms of their own economy, given that each knut was the mage equivalent of a cent, each sickle the equivalent of a single pound, and each galleon the equivalent of a hundred pounds, that meant quite a lot in the framework of their own economy. Still, as the exchange rate worked in his favour at the moment, he had no trouble dishing out the necessary money, much to the man's surprise, though he made no comment.

Thus, Harry was now the proud owner of two pieces of jewellery for his ex, two fuel crystals for his own experimentation, and a decent load of books for his own magical training.

All in all, a damned good day, considering how bad it started.

* * *

**Liverpool, United Kingdom, July 2003…**

"I don't believe you," Elicia's response was quick, disbelieving, and flat, as was her expression.

Harry sighed. "Ellie, listen to me, _I'm not lying_," he protested.

Elicia raised an eyebrow at his vehemence. When she had agreed to stay behind and help him clean up after his surprise birthday party/Oxford University graduation party at his hotel room, she had _not _been expecting him to drop such a huge bomb on her.

"You're actually standing there and telling me that not only did you _lie_ _to_ _me_ about your identity, but also hid the fact that you're actually a _mage_?" she asked incredulously, her arms crossed over her chest defensively.

Harry sighed and thanked the powers that be that he had the foresight to wait until everyone had left for this discussion. Only William, his parents, godfather, and sister knew what he had planned, and while they didn't exactly approve, they did support his decision, as family always did.

"I know it sounds crazy, Ellie, but I can prove it!" he told her. He needed her to believe him. Not just because he needed her skills, but because lying to her hurt him more than he had been able to admit to himself. Coming clean to her…it would cleanse him, in a way.

"Which one?" she asked sardonically. "That you're really not named Francis White, or that you can pull rabbits out of top hats?"

Harry sighed in frustration. "Damnit, Ellie, don't make this harder than it needs to be!"

Elicia threw her arms in the air. "Oh, _sorry_, am I making this too _hard_ on you?" she mock apologized. "Here I was thinking that I was fully within my rights to _freak out_ because the man I love apparently _doesn't exist_!" she exclaimed, a note of hysteria in her voice.

"I _do_ exist, Ellie!" he protested, noting her lack of past tense in the word love with a hidden smile. "So I go by a different name in reality, big deal!"

Ellie poked him in the chest roughly. "It _is_ a big deal, White! Potter! Or…whatever you're called!" she shot back. "We've known each other since we were _twelve_! I gave you my first kiss! My first time having sex was with you! And you _lied_ to me all those years?" she demanded, tears now clearly visible in her eyes. "Did I mean so little to you?"

Harry was horrified by the direction Elicia's mental logic was going. "Of course not!" he protested…something that he seemed to be doing a lot these days. "Ellie, I love you more than I can bear at times! That I hid my real identity from you had _nothing_ to do with us!"

"Then what _did_ it have to do with?" she yelled at him. "What could _possibly_ justify lying to me for _eleven years_?"

"My family, alright?!" he yelled right back, at the edge of his own patience. "I did it to protect my family!"

Suddenly tired, Harry fell heavily onto the edge of his bed, bending down until his hands cupped his face, his elbows resting on his knees. "When I was one…some prick decided to kill my family," he told her, missing her look of horror at his confession. "Long story short, mom and dad managed to kill the bastard right back, but the guys my parents were fighting for were real bastards themselves…they would've used us as propaganda to get their own agendas through with minimal opposition," he explained, before giving a bitter laugh. "Hell, the evil prick's remaining forces might have even attempted to kill us in our sleep one night in revenge…I don't know," he admitted. "All I know is that mom and dad decided to call it quits with the UK and fled to the Continent, where we would go into hiding in some city or town…mostly for a few months, maybe a year or two if our luck held, and then moved somewhere else when those bastard mages here found us."

"So you changed your name to avoid detection," Elicia reasoned, and Harry now noticed she was kneeling beside him, her hand soothingly rubbing his arm. Oh, how it hurt him to have that beautiful face so close to him, and still be so out of his reach! "Why come back, then?"

Harry sighed. "Whatever our wishes were to keep in hiding, my dreams were to one day get the mages to back off…but for that I needed power. Political and military power…and they would only listen if that power came from home, not abroad," he explained. "I figured that out pretty young. So I convinced mom and dad to let me come to Liverpool College, despite their objections."

Elicia smiled. "I'm glad you did," she whispered.

Harry smiled as he turned his head to look straight into her eyes. "So am I."

"So why tell me now?" she asked suddenly, curiosity—not resentment—flooding her eyes. "What changed?"

Harry smiled softly at her. "You did," he said simply, much to her confusion. "I never, _ever_ expected you to come into my life the way you did," he explained. "But you did, and I'm thankful every day for it. Lying to you hurt me more than I thought I could bear…so I decided to come clean, you know?"

Elicia smiled at him tolerantly. "You're still the same idiot I knew from back then in the hallway…" she sighed nostalgically. "All natural charm, no ruthlessness…honestly, what _am_ I going to do with you?" she asked with a patient smile.

"You could take me back?" he suggested wryly.

Elicia's smile dropped for a second before it came back. "You know we can't," she told him. "You have your dreams, I have mine…and I can't follow you down that bloodstained road," she said softly. "Please don't make me do so."

Harry smiled ruefully at her obvious answer, and raised her chin with a finger so that her eyes would meet his. "You know I'd never do that," he whispered to her. "You, Elicia Maria Eisenheim, are _everything_ to me."

She smiled tearfully. "I don't suppose that means I can convince you to drop your little crusade and live a peaceful life with me?" she asked knowingly.

Harry returned the smile. "You know I can't," he echoed her previous words. "But I swear, I'll do everything in my power to make the new world as perfect for you as I feasibly can."

"Such a romantic…" she sighed with a rueful smile. "God must hate dreamers like us."

Harry shook his head. "I think he must really love us," he disagreed, piquing her curiosity.

"Why's that?"

Harry smiled and leaned forward to give her a kiss on the lips. "Because he let us have wonderful years together," he whispered before pressing his lips to hers gently.

* * *

**Sandhurst, United Kingdom, 2004…**

Harry _really_ didn't like the look on the faces of his superiors.

Early in the morning, he had been summoned before what he had gathered was a secret panel of high-ranking brass. While the details were sketchy to him, he did note that other than himself and the officers in question, plus two men who looked to be from the SAS as guards, they were completely alone, which was non-standard for a formal military hearing. Not that he was worried about such a thing—he knew he hadn't done anything against regulations.

"Cadet White…or, should I say, Second Lieutenant White," started the officer in the middle of the ten-man panel. He looked to be about sixty, and had a full, snow-white beard to go with his equally white, perfectly groomed hair. The stars on his shoulder lapels denoted him a Major General. "First of all, allow me to congratulate you, on behalf of this panel, for your outstanding service record while at Sandhurst. Truly remarkable, lieutenant."

Harry stiffened and saluted, as was protocol. "Thank you, sir!"

The man waved away the formal thanks. "However, as you may have gathered, we do not simply gather a panel of the most influential officers of Her Majesty's Army to congratulate successful officers in private," the man noted Harry's unsurprised look. "Good lad. That's a good head on your shoulders."

The man next to the Major General, this one a Lieutenant General, nodded. "Quite so. As Major General Fording was explaining, this sort of panel is typically called when not only do we find remarkable officers, but ones that are apparently not who they say they are."

Harry stiffened slightly at the unsaid accusation. "Sir?"

"Lying to the government, and most importantly, to your superiors is a court-martial worthy offence, lieutenant White," another man reminded him, this one a Major General as well. "Or, should we say, mister Harry Potter?"

Harry felt all sorts of alarms ring in his head at the revelation that they knew who he was. It was pointless now to keep lying. "…May I ask how, sirs?" he asked simply.

"Do not underestimate the reach and power of the British military, mister Potter," warned the same Lieutenant General as before. "While we have known about this information throughout your stay at Welbeck, and then Oxford, and then here at Sandhurst, we have decided not to prosecute you based on it. Do you know why?"

Harry's logical mind did not need much time to come up with the obvious answer. "You realize that a mage under Army control is of more use than one under the control of the mages," he stated neutrally.

The Major General at the centre looked surprised, but also quite admiring that the boy before him had managed to come to the correct conclusion. "Indeed, though perhaps not in such words," he conceded.

"Permission to speak freely, sirs?" asked Harry. The panel seemed to confer for a few seconds before the Major General waved his hand in approval. "Thank you. Sirs, while I am indeed a mage, my first loyalty is to my family," he told them in no uncertain terms. "However, that being said, my second and last is to my country. I will be whatever Britain needs me to be to secure her borders and bring its populace the security it deserves. If that means, as I believe it does in this case, that I become a human weapon, then so be it."

The panel was quiet for a few moments before the Lieutenant General leaned forward onto his awaiting, linked hands. "Is that all, _Lieutenant_ White?" he asked.

Harry nodded once, noting with joy that the man chose to address him by his earned rank and his public identity. It was a tacit approval of his words if nothing else, and a promise to keep his identity a secret, thereby safeguarding his family from mage intervention.

"One last question, Lieutenant, before we adjourn," piped up the Major General in the centre.

"Sir?"

"Why do you hide from the mages?" asked the old man.

Harry's posture stiffened, greatly increasing the panel's curiosity. "Sirs, they have tormented my family for years, so that we could become mere shadows of people for their benefit. They seek only to profit themselves, without regard for their non-mage brethren. I will _not_ serve them," he answered vehemently.

The panel looked at each other and deliberated in hushed whispers for a moment before the Major General nodded and looked at Harry. "Very well, Lieutenant. Thank you for your patience," he said. "I understand you wish to stay on for a few more years to complete your studies in…" he looked at a paper before him. "…War Studies and Defence and International Affairs? Please explain?"

Harry nodded. "Yes, sir. I am working on a thesis I believe will aid the military substantially, and I need the resources here to allow me to complete it," he explained.

The Major General nodded and, almost boringly, stamped something on the paper before him. "Approved, Lieutenant. Good luck. We'll be expecting great things from you."

Harry stiffened and saluted. "Yes, sir!"

* * *

**Liverpool, United Kingdom, 2005…**

"I _still_ can't believe they actually elected you,"

"Ouch, pup, that hurts!" Sirius complained dramatically.

Harry rolled his eyes at the spectacle Sirius was making. Thankfully, they weren't in a public space, but rather at Sirius' flat, celebrating Sirius' election to Member of Parliament for Liverpool a few hours ago. It had been a tough thing to bring about, considering the years he'd been gone from the UK, but two years ago, he'd been smuggled back into England under the assumed name of Michael White, Harry's supposed uncle, and quickly made a name for himself as a pragmatic, yet charismatic leader with deep pockets. His entire persona seemed rather an extension of his real identity, but since the public seemed to love him for it, Harry couldn't complain.

"Harry, be nice to your uncle," Elicia chastised him gently at his side on the couch. "It's quite an achievement, getting elected to Parliament."

Harry sighed…even broken up, she still had him wrapped around her finger. "Fine, fine…sorry for being disbelieving about your victory, Sirius," he apologized blandly.

Sirius was all smiles, however. "No worries, Harry!" he exclaimed jubilantly. "How could they _not_ vote this sexy piece of man flesh to Parliament, after all I've done for the community?" he asked just a mite arrogantly.

Now it was Elicia's turn to look disbelieving. "I apologize, Sirius, but by what era's standards are we going by to call you a sexy piece of man flesh?" she asked sardonically. "The sixties, perhaps?"

Sirius made a huge spectacle of looking physically wounded by the sarcastic remark, while Harry laughed uproariously at Elicia's spot on comment. "Oh _wow_, Sirius…you got _told_."

Sirius huffed. "Kids these days…no appreciation for finely matured men like myself!"

Harry suddenly leaned forward, his expression all business. "More importantly, Sirius, did you manage to dig up the information I asked for?" he asked seriously.

Sirius nodded, his expression equally all business. "Of course," he replied with a smug smirk as he reached for the insides of the briefcase at the side of his chair. "James and Lily have _really_ been at work at spreading their contacts around mage society, so it was easy to get such low priority information." He tossed a folder at Harry, who deftly caught it.

"What is it?" asked Elicia, curious about what would make Harry look so serious.

"Fuel crystal deposit locations," Sirius said before Harry could. "Commonly used to produce what we call Floo Powder…a substance used to allow anyone with it to use a connected fireplace to teleport to another such fireplace in seconds."

Elicia's eyes widened. "That's…amazing!"

Sirius nodded and nudged his head at his godson, who was pouring over the information inside the folder. "He's been obsessed about studying them since he found one at a gem shop a few years back," he told his godson's ex…a situation he found quite intriguing, considering the fact that he could see the obvious attraction between the two.

Immediately, her hand seemed to reach for the sapphire pendant around her neck. Having noted the action, Harry nodded at her.

"I got the crystals at the same place I got you that and the jade earrings," he confirmed. Elicia seemed put out by this information.

"And you never let me in on your pet project?" she asked disappointedly. "Harry, I make my living off of stuff like this!"

Harry gave her an apologetic look. "Sorry, Ellie, must've slipped my mind…" he said genuinely. "Look, either way, I've made so little progress on them that I might as well not have started to begin with!"

Sirius raised an eyebrow at that. "That's not the impression you gave James and Lily," he noted.

Harry shrugged. "Those were theoretical uses I deduced after minimal observation. The real, experimental stuff I've had no luck with."

Elicia grinned at him. "Let me in on it, then!" she suggested excitedly. "I've got the equipment needed to do all _kinds_ of crazy things! Heck, I could even pass it off as university research!"

Harry looked at Elicia warily. "Are you sure?" he asked with some concern. "I mean, I'm not even aware of most of the crystal's properties…it could be dangerous."

Elicia waved away his concern, to Sirius' silent amusement. "There's plenty of danger in _any_ project I work on," she assured him, which oddly enough produced the exact opposite effect in him. "I only have one condition, though."

Harry and Sirius both raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

She nodded seriously. "I want to be able to publish the results," she stated plainly. Seeing Sirius well on his way to vocalize a protest, she quickly amended her words. "I don't care when, or how…but you _have_ to let me publish the results. _Please!_"

Harry looked at Elicia ponderingly for a moment before realizing why she was making such a desperate plea to them. "You want to use this to vindicate your family, don't you?" he asked softly.

Elicia looked at him. "Brilliant as always," she said with a smile.

Sirius, however, was not quite as compassionate on this. "That's all well and nice, but to publish the results on what is _obviously_ a magical element would blow _all_ our covers, don't you think?" he asked shrewdly. "Dumbledore and his goons would be on us in record time, _nevermind_ the Ministry Aurors!"

"Magic will eventually be revealed to the world, Sirius," Harry reminded him. "That's the plan, remember?"

Sirius nodded. "Oh, I remember. I also remember that we all agreed to follow your plan on the condition that it _didn't_ massively jeopardize our covers outside the realm of necessity!" he shot back. "I get why I have to be in Parliament, and I'll follow my role as much as need be for you, Harry. I even get why you're going to such great lengths to recruit a horde of followers already! However, I _don't_ get why we have to risk our necks experimenting on a magical element in what will _obviously_ be a non-magical location! The Ministry is _certain_ to get its monitors pinged!"

"We can hide the magical signature behind wards," Harry countered.

"Oh?" asked Sirius sceptically. "And how will you explain to the Ministry _why_ there's an anti-detection ward being cast over the University of Liverpool?"

Harry grimaced; he hadn't thought of that. Then, inspiration struck him. "What about that old house in London you told me you had?" he asked.

Sirius blinked in confusion. "What? Grimmauld Place?" he asked with distaste. "What on earth could you possibly want to do in that black hole of misery and hate?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "It's hidden, right?" he asked.

Sirius shrugged, but nodded all the same. "That's right. A Fidelius was cast on it and kept in the family. I'm the current Secret Keeper," he replied.

"Couldn't we set up whatever machinery Ellie might need to do experimentation there?" he asked. "It's already cloaked, so no one would be the wiser, and we wouldn't need to cast a new one elsewhere!"

Sirius blinked at the surprisingly simple logic. "It…could work," he admitted, rubbing his chin. "Though we'd have to shield the machinery from magic, if only to just cross the wards…they might fry, otherwise."

Harry grinned at Elicia. "How about it?" he asked.

Elicia looked uncertain, however. "I…don't get to London all that much, though," she protested mildly.

Sirius nodded. "Good," he stated. Seeing their surprised expressions, he sighed and elaborated. "Ms. Eisenheim, besides the fact that my family's ancestral home is barely liveable for _any_ living being, it would also work to our advantage if your visible visits there were few and far between, as doing so would arouse less suspicion from elements in our world who might be watching the place for signs that I have come back to England."

Harry blinked. "But then, how do we get her and the equipment inside?" he asked.

Sirius smiled. "You and I can get the equipment into the house via the front door, since the magic of the Fidelius will get them to ignore our presence once we cross into its target area, and we only need to do the trip once," he explained. "Ms. Eisenheim, on the other hand, we can provide with a Portkey for her to use whenever she is in London…ostensibly for whatever personal reasons she has."

Harry gently smacked an open palm with his closed fist. "I see! If she uses the Portkey from, say, her hotel room, no one will see her around Grimmauld Place, and thus have no reasons to suspect her!" he reasoned. "Because no matter how many times the magic makes them ignore where she's gone, if the mages realize that it's happening too many times in a row, and it's always her, she'd be immediately suspected of knowing where your house is!"

Sirius nodded, pleased his godson had caught on so quickly. "Quite so," he agreed. "Since there are so many mages in London to begin with, her using the Portkey in her hotel room wouldn't even register as an anomaly for the Ministry."

Elicia, for her part, looked like she might have a headache. "This is all so very confusing…" she admitted with a pained smile towards Harry. "I can see why you were reluctant to tell me about this other side of you now," she admitted.

Harry smiled gently back at her, further confusing Sirius as to why they were _not_ together. "It's not so bad…" he assured her.

Sirius scoffed. "You want to know what's confusing?" he asked rhetorically. "You two! I swear, you've got to be the most perfect couple I've ever seen, and you keep dancing around each other like your lives depend on _not_ getting together!" he exclaimed exasperatedly.

Well, no one could exactly accuse Sirius of being restrained about his opinions.

* * *

**Liverpool, United Kingdom, January 5****th****, 2008…**

"Can you _believe_ the fuss those Spaniards are making about Gibraltar?" asked Harry incredulously as he read the paper in Elicia's kitchen, fully aware that he was simply wearing boxers after another night of incredible sex. "You'd think the very existence of their _country_ was prevaricated on them getting back a piece of land about the size of London!"

Elicia hummed an agreement as she entered the kitchen in a robe, kissing her ex lovingly on the cheek. "They do seem rather obsessed, don't they?" she agreed, grabbing a plate of the delicious looking breakfast her wonderful ex had cooked up as an after-sex/breakfast meal.

Harry grunted. "Only one term in power, and this new party thinks it's important enough to boss around an entire country," he commented incredulously. "You've got to hand it to them, though…they've got stones."

"Language," Elicia chastised him.

"Sorry, sorry…"

"So," she said casually as she spread some strawberry jam on her toast, "when does your leave end?"

Harry put down the paper and looked at her curiously. "About six hours, why?" he asked.

Elicia's eyes had a mischievous look in them that Harry both liked and feared. "Oh, I don't know…I guess I was thinking how it would be nice to…you know...indulge ourselves and maybe…stay in bed a while…relaxing," she purred into his ear, making him shiver, especially since her breath now smelled of strawberries. Damn the woman for being this attractive!

Harry grinned at her. "Well, I've certainly heard _worse_ plans for leave days," he joked. "And yours sounds positively…delicious, my dear Ellie."

Elicia smiled at him and leaned in for a kiss when they sprung apart at the sound of the phone ringing.

"Ignore it," Harry said as he leaned in again. They never made it to a kiss, however, as now his cell phone was also ringing, followed quickly by Elicia's. The resulting cacophony of _every phone in the room_ ringing at the same time pretty much shot down their chance to proceed with Elicia's scrumptious plan for the day.

Angrily, Harry huffed and went for his cell phone, while Elicia rushed to answer the main line, ignoring the beeping of her cell phone.

"What?!" Harry barked angrily into his phone.

"_Francis, what the hell took you so long, man?_" Harry heard John say over the phone. "_Quick, do you have a radio or TV nearby?_"

Harry frowned in confusion. "TV, why?" he asked curiously.

"_Put on the BBC, quick! It's…incredible!_"

Harry glared at the phone. "John, if this is your idea of fun…" he warned.

"_Francis, just do it! I promise you this is important! Shit, gotta go…do it, man! Check the news!_" The phone suddenly clicked before the tell-tale sound of rhythmic beeping replaced John's voice, signalling he had hung up.

Growling under his breath, he turned towards Elicia, who had paled dramatically as she seemingly listened to whatever was being said on the phone. When he met her eyes, she merely seemed to pale even more, until she looked more like a ghost than a human being.

"Ellie?" he asked worriedly. "What's wrong?"

Elicia muttered goodbyes in the phone quickly before hanging up and rushing over to him, hugging him for all he was worth. He couldn't make out what she was saying, unfortunately, as she was too busy sobbing her soul out into his naked chest.

"Ellie, love!" he tried again. "What's wrong?"

Shakily, she pointed to the TV. "T…Turn it on," she requested weakly.

Harry shook his head. "Not before we sit you down, come on," he ordered, gently leading her to the sofa and sitting her there, where she then proceeded to hide her face in her hands and sob once more.

Now incredibly worried as to what could have _possibly_ caused this sort of behaviour in the usually lively woman he loved, Harry quickly went to the TV and turned it on, quickly changing the channels to the BBC's news channel. What he saw there changed his world.

On the screen were pictures of what seemed to be a battlefield, streaming live from wherever it was going on. Corpses were clearly visible on the ground, as were multiple impact craters and destroyed small-arm weaponry.

"…_completely by surprise!_" someone—the correspondent streaming the video, he guessed—was shouting as the sound of a shell exploding nearby made the man then scream in terror. "_…no warning whatsoever! Initial casualties are high, but we are holding on, for now!_"

Harry sat down heavily beside Elicia, his mouth opening and closing by its own volition, his mind shocked at what he was seeing. What was going on? Where was this?

The scene quickly changed from the battlefield to the BBC's main studio, where the anchormen seemed just as shocked at the scene of the bloody battlefield. It took what sounded like a muffled cough for them to snap out of it and shakily return their attention to the cameras.

"_...As you can see, dear viewers, initial reports of hostilities have not been erroneous,_" the lead anchorman was saying shakily. "_As reported by the Ministry of Defence, Gibraltar has come under attack by Spanish forces._"

Harry's jaw dropped in shock. Wasn't he moments ago just reading how the Ultranationalists in Spain were pushing for a diplomatic solution to the Gibraltar issue?

"…_What's that? I see…_" the anchorman seemed to be talking to someone off stage via a small microphone in his ear. He quickly returned his attention to the camera. "_Dear audience, I apologize for the interruption, but we are going live to Parliament, where the Prime Minister is about to address the nation in this time of crisis._"

As pronounced, the scene on the telly shifted over to the House of Commons, which seemed much fuller than usual. Considering the circumstances, of course, that made sense. At the middle of the chamber, the Prime Minister could be seen standing before the wooden separator that divided the chamber between Government and Opposition, obviously going through last minute details on his speech. When the Prime Minister seemed ready to speak, he looked up just as the camera angle shifted so that the audience could see him from the front.

"…_My fellow countrymen,_" the man began solemnly. "_…I understand that for many of us, the concept of war between fellow, civilized nations is about as absurd as it was for our ancestors who lived during the rise of Nazi Germany,_" he said. "_Yet nonetheless, here we are. January fifth, two thousand-eight, a date that began like any other in this post-Soviet world…a world we were promised to be peaceful and prosperous. Now, it will forever be a day we look back on with bitter tears and broken dreams, as the winds of war sweep our nation back onto the battlefield of Europe once more._"

Harry watched the man take a breath, and in that instant, his cell phone rang. He didn't need to see the caller ID before he knew exactly who it was. "Captain White speaking," he spoke seriously. "Uh-huh…yeah…I'll be there, sir. See you then."

"…_This was not to be our lives…war, we were told, was to become a thing of the past, now that we had won the clash of civilizations. But these promises have been broken, torn to shreds by evil men with malevolent intentions foremost in their hearts and minds_," the Prime Minister continued. "_As of four o'clock this morning, as you all know, Spanish armed forces, under the direction of the dastardly central government, have invaded Gibraltar, with the full intention of forcibly claiming this territory for themselves, at the cost of the thousands of British lives living therein._"

Boos could be heard throughout the Commons chamber, and Harry was hard pressed not to join in. "_But in doing so, they have misjudged us!_" the Prime Minister's voice rose several octaves as he wound himself up. "_They see our current size, and think that the British spirit has been broken—that we have become shadows of our Imperial past! That we would turn the other cheek and look away from the evil deeds being done to our people miles away! They are wrong!_"

"_For a thousand years, Britain has been the balancer of Europe. When the Continent set itself aflame, we would keep the balance. When their squabbles became more, we stepped in and kept the lines. When it threatened to consume the world twice over in tides of hatred and bigotry, __**we held the line!**_" the Prime Minister emphasized his statement by banging the podium four times with his fist, to the cheers of the assembled people in the chamber. "_And we will still hold the line! I say, the spirit of Britannia is not, as the Spanish may believe, put out, but rather waiting to be rekindled—ready to light the way for the civilized world when honoured deeds and justice are forsaken by the world! And so, I ask Parliament now, will we lie down and take this insult to our people, or will be stand up, and as one protest this most vile intrusion into our hard-earned peace, and throw the Spanish back, with a lesson they will never forget?!_"

The House of Commons erupted into a mixture of cheers from all sides as the indignity of the Spanish surprise assault rallied them behind the Prime Minister, disregarding any former disagreements over policy or ideology. Right now, there were no Tories, no Labour, no Liberal Democrats. There were only Britons in the House of Commons at the moment, and they were all baying for blood.

For his part, however, Harry kissed Elicia lovingly on the temple before hurrying to her room, where he quickly gathered his uniform and travelling clothes. He had to get to the nearest train station as quick as possible. Coming back out to the living room, he saw her still on the couch, watching the slow descent of their peaceful lives into the bloody abyss of war.

"Ellie, I have to go," he called out to her. "Regiment's being moved to the coast for now, but it's likely we're getting deployed soon."

Slowly, Elicia rose from her seat and walked over to him, suddenly embracing him tightly. Smiling slightly, Harry reciprocated with a tight hug of his own.

"Come back to me," he heard her whisper.

"I promise," he whispered right back, before they both pulled back enough to allow them to give each other a searing goodbye kiss. Leaning his forehead against hers, he gave her a shy smile—something she hadn't seen in years. "I love you," he told her sincerely.

She smiled back at him tearfully. "I love you too," she replied, just as honestly.

With that, he pulled out of the embrace and quickly left out the front door, while Elicia went back to the couch and sobbed into her hands, ignoring the scene playing out on the TV screen.

Seeing the overwhelming support for him, the Prime Minister nodded thankfully and made a gesture for quiet, which he slowly got.

"_Thank you, my fellow countrymen,_" he said genuinely. "_Then, as of this moment, I am declaring that the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland is officially in a state of war with the Kingdom of Spain until such a time when the enemy or ourselves are crushed._"

The man took a long breath and sighed, closing his eyes in reluctant acceptance of the situation that had befallen his term in office. "_May God have mercy on our souls._"

* * *

_Post-AN: Just to preempt what I suspect will be a question repeated over and over again in reviews, or maybe just in the readers' heads,_

_**Why Harry was not identified at the Leaky Cauldron**: Tom hasn't seen James Potter or Lily Potter in 22 years. Add to that the fact that 22-year old, post-Welbeck Harry would look more robust and square-faced than James, and you've got a nice little case of mistaken identity going on. Seeing as how the rest of the Ministry is under the impression that the Potters are all on the continent, there would also be no reason for them to intensify searches as home (meaning no posters and the like along Diagon Alley)._

**_Also; Yes: This will be the format used for the following chapters, as the time period that needs to be covered is roughly 35 year in total. _**_As with this chapter, the appropriately important parts will have longer sections, but otherwise the format stays._

_Other notes:_

_1. **Elicia Maria Eisenheim**: As King of Vaypouria might attest, Elicia Maria Eisenheim was **not** an originally intended character for this story. In fact, she was originally supposed to be, 1) a guy; and 2) so very not a romantic interest. It was only after actually writing the scenes she was in that I realized, apparently somewhat late considering my friend's reaction to the news I'd changed her role, that she was **perfect** as a romantic interest. So I did, and the story will be that much more emotionally charged for it, I believe. For the record, though: yes, Elicia will be a significant character throughout the story.  
_

_2. **Romance**: "Emperor" is not, as one might think after reading this chapter, a Romance-intensive story. The only reason for the amount I've shown in this chapter is the fact that it serves as the jumping point for Harry's motivation for becoming Emperor and the motivation for the methods he becomes willing to employ to get there._

_3. **Country Animosities**: During the Dark Wars Series, the country that got the short end of the stick was the United States. This time, it's Spain, for now. However, this does **not** imply any sort of hatred on my part for either nation. While I have my issues with the US government, the people within the United States do not have my hatred, and as a descendant of Spain, I hold no ill will towards what I consider my family's ancestral homeland. Please keep that in mind before launching insulting reviews based on perceived personal animosities towards particular countries._

_As always, please review._

_-MB  
_


	3. Chapter II: That Dark, Nightmarish Year

_AN: And I break my word count per chapter record yet again. Let me make one thing clear, however: I'm not entirely happy with this chapter. Certainly, it does, to my mind show the practical military development of Harry, as well as the moral issues he comes across as he fights from battlefield to battlefield. However, please note that this one chapter encompasses little over a year, and even then I was reaching the 20k mark about halfway into the year. Thus, there's been a lot of other, less important events cut out for the sake of thematic continuity._

* * *

**Gibraltar, United Kingdom Overseas Territory, June 2008…**

"Jesus Christ…"

Harry couldn't help but silently agree with the soldier's remark from behind him. Gibraltar was a bloody mess. Hell, even _that_ didn't seem good enough an explanation of how bad things looked.

Bombed out buildings seemed to dominate the landscape as they disembarked from the Royal Navy ships. In the distance, they could even see pillars of smoke emanating from what would have been downtown Gibraltar, but now simply looked like just another battlefield to the group of military men.

"Dons really let them have it, huh?" he heard a soldier whisper to another.

"Fucking bastards," the soldier's companion agreed.

Harry could have ordered the soldiers to remain silent, but he didn't have the heart to do it, not when he himself was experiencing some measure of shock at the sight before him. This was, after all, his first real taste of war, and it completely dumbfounded him. Wasn't it accepted that militaries could no longer indiscriminately bomb civilian areas? Wasn't there supposed to be some sort of code of conduct? Rules of war, and the like?

At the bottom of the landing ramp, he spotted one of the other Captains in the regiment and waved at him when the Captain looked up and spotted him.

"Potter," the man greeted. Harry nodded back, and turned to give orders to his men.

"Meet up with Major Miles at the planned briefing station," he ordered. "I'll be along shortly."

The senior lieutenant of the group went rigid and saluted, followed by the rest of the Company. "Yes, sir!" he barked, before turning and ordering the men to follow him, which they did without protest.

Turning his attention back to his fellow Captain, Harry looked around a bit before resting his eyes back on the man. "What the hell happened here?" he asked.

The man shrugged. "You're looking at the work of the Spanish fleet," he stated uncaringly as he lit up a cigarette and took a deep drag. "Whatever the mortar teams on the other side of the Wall couldn't hit, the ships took care of. It's a damn miracle there's as many survivors as there are."

Harry nodded. The Wall his colleague was referring to was a thing of legend in the British military. Spanning the whole width of the peninsula, it was a giant, ten-stories tall concrete-and-steel wall about two city blocks wide that the British had built to separate Gibraltar from Spain during the post-World War II years, just in case Franco had decided to go looking for trouble. The inner workings of the wall were common knowledge to the garrison forces, but a complete secret to anyone outside the Gibraltar garrison. It essentially made land-based attacks into Gibraltar absolutely impossible.

Of course, at the same time, no one had expected that the post-Franco Spanish governments would then decide to bomb the tiny peninsula from the sea.

"It's unreal, isn't it?" asked the man after he blew out some smoke. "You always figure shite like this will be someone else's problem…and BAM! When it hits you, you can't help but stay staring at the mess, wondering where it all went wrong."

Harry nodded slowly. "Do we know how many of the garrison are alive?" he asked.

"Word has it that most of them were holed up in the Wall when the Dons decided to redecorate, so for the most part, they're okay. It's the civvies that got hammered," the Captain reported. "About fifteen thousand lost, last I heard."

Harry whistled appreciatively. "Christ…that's about half of them, then," he breathed.

The man nodded. "Major Polk says the only reason the rest of them made it through the barrage was because the garrison opened up the wall for them to take refuge inside," he relayed. "Still…they took the place completely by surprise."

Harry nodded, looking over to where he could still see the plumes of black smoke rising from the civilian sector. "Hard to believe the Dons haven't invaded yet, considering the damage," he noted.

The Captain nodded with a smirk. "Shore batteries. Kept the bastards good and far while we high-tailed it out here," he explained, motioning to what were now smoking wrecks of concrete and bent steel. "Last one gave out just as our lads closed in with the Spanish fleet. Probably saved the colony, they did."

"Any survivors?"

The man shook his head. "Not a one, s'far as we can tell," he replied dully. "Bastards killed them to the man."

Harry nodded, a grimace gracing his face as he realized that it was probably the only logical end result to the amount of damage that the batteries would have needed to take before they gave out.

"Bet the lads'll be all fired up to take the fight to the Dons after this," he muttered. "What about your boys, Speirs? How are they taking this?"

Speirs shrugged. "Not well," he said simply. "A couple of them had relatives here, and the news spread through the company. The whole lot of them are revved up to kill some Dons."

"And you?"

Speirs shrugged again. "This isn't my first war, and it's not likely to be the last," he stated evenly. "First time, I was in Rwanda with the expeditionary forces in ninety-four. Had to stop ourselves a bona-fide genocide from happening. We kinda succeeded, I guess," he recalled, ending with a shrug. "Good way as any to pop my war cherry, anyway."

"Kinda succeeded?" Harry parroted, curious.

Speirs shrugged. "The brass called it a success. Dunno how those twenty thousand dead felt, though."

* * *

**Gibraltar, United Kingdom Overseas Territory, October 2008…**

Harry barely looked up as dust fell on the latest letter to come from home, the sound of an explosion dully muffled by the concrete between him and it.

Like the rest of the company, he was quartered in an underground bunker within the Rock of Gibraltar, and for the most part stayed there while the Spanish mortar teams and artillery kept up their determined campaign to turn the small peninsula into hell on earth. So far, they had succeeded in forcing the British forces underground, but they had not counted on the fact that the Rock bunker had been connected to the Wall via underground passageways. As such, there was very little need for the British to ever come out into the open.

A knock on the open door to his private quarters—one of the perks of being a commissioned officer—got him to look up, and he smiled weakly at the sight of his superior officer, Major Michael "Speedy" Miles.

"News from home?" asked the Major with a knowing smile.

Harry nodded. "Just Elicia keeping me up to date," he informed Miles. "Sounds like Isabella is going to Canada to study," he noted. "Mum and Dad are worried that the war may spread into the Isles themselves, so she can't stay there. They'll be going with her, too, just in case."

Miles nodded, having been informed of Harry's family and particular circumstances, mostly due to the fact that Harry could be called on by the brass for a special performance at any time, which would leave him temporarily without a second-in-command. "And William?"

Harry shrugged. "Sounds like he's staying in England," he replied evenly as he read further into the letter. "He's twenty three years old, sir—old enough to make his own decisions, I suppose."

"Where's he working?"

Harry scanned the letter. "Looks like he enrolled at Trinity College to get his postgraduate degree in Political Theory," he said before narrowing his eyes to make sure he got the next part right. "…and he's become day manager of a restaurant near the College."

"Following in the footsteps of his big brother, then, eh?" noted the Major.

"Never got my graduate degrees, sir," Harry reminded his superior idly. "And I sure as hell don't remember working in a restaurant. I could burn water," he noted sardonically.

The Major gave a cheerful, booming laugh. Harry didn't mind it—it was the way the Major was. Cheerful, optimistic, compassionate to his men—it was why Harry enjoyed working with him. He didn't push his men away, instead trying to connect to each of them on a personal level—much like what he was doing now with him. His one fault, if you could call it that?

"Say, that cute little girl of yours wouldn't know of any…single ladies, would she?" asked the Major with a leer.

The Major was a pervert.

Well, maybe that was a bit of an unfair characterization. It wasn't that he was always flipping up skirts, or trying to peek in women's bathrooms. He didn't stalk, or come on too strong. He wasn't a creepy pervert…he just had a rather slightly-more-than-healthy appreciation for the female sex. Which was damned odd to the people that didn't know him very well, as common sense dictated that such behaviour would inevitably contradict his seemingly dominant sense of chivalry.

Oddly, it didn't.

Harry sighed, lowering the letter to make eye contact with his superior, a tolerant smile on his face. "Sorry, sir," he apologized without any real empathy. "Ellie's social life tends to be restricted to childhood friends and workplace co-workers. Most of which, in both cases, have either married, or are taken."

The Major made a big show of snapping his fingers in disappointment, which Harry knew better than to take to heart. Probably every member of the company had by now seen this act so often that they knew it to be just a game for him; a way to alleviate any tension that might have built up from his unorthodox counselling or simple chit-chat. In Harry's case, he knew the Major had done it to try and dispel the loneliness he was feeling, now that he didn't get to go to sleep some nights with Ellie at his side. While he gave props to the Major for trying, it didn't really work, however.

"I doubt you came all this way just to chat, sir," Harry then said, folding the letter and tucking it inside his breast pocket for later perusal. "Do we have new orders?"

The Major frowned at him but then gave a lopsided smile. "Perceptive, White. Good, good," he praised. "You're right. 51st Regiment is coming off the wall in four hours. Guess who's been tapped to take their place?"

Harry sighed. "I'll tell the men," he offered as he got up from his bunk. "Unless you've already done so, sir?" he asked, gazing at his superior searchingly.

The Major shook his head. "Haven't had the chance yet. The order just came in from Fording."

Harry grunted in passing acknowledgement. General Fording was, to practically _all_ of the twelve regiments now stationed in Gibraltar, one of the most incompetent officers they had ever had the displeasure of serving under. It wasn't that he was cruel, or wilfully disregarded his men's lives as cannon fodder—he was simply _bad_ at war. He had no skill in tactics or strategy, and whenever he tried to run the logistics, something always got bollixed up.

Of course, the story of how he got the generalship of this expedition was common knowledge throughout the detachment, even though it was technically supposed to be top secret. Simply put, Fording was someone in government's favourite lap dog, and Fording had gotten glowing recommendations in Parliament that made it impossible for the military brass to _not_ pick him for the job, despite the fact that he was among the worst in the upper ranks—and he knew it.

Well, to be fair, he _did_ have a few redeeming qualities. Fording didn't treat his men like toys, for one. Like Major Miles, he was well liked as a person among the troops, but unlike Miles, was disliked as a commanding officer. He was also painfully aware as to his shortcomings, so he more often than not listened to his advisors and picked the suggestion that seemed to make most sense to him. Plus, given his lack of thorough understanding of tactics and strategy, he had adopted the mantra of "the best offense is a good defence"—presumably until someone wised up on his shortcomings.

In this particular case, it was likely that their commanding officer, Colonel Strider, had given some form of glowing praise for the 75th Regiment, nicknamed "the Liverpudlians," as all of its members had been drawn from Liverpool. Normally, that would be reason for chest thumping and glowing pride, but in this case, it was a job none of the lads, not even him, wanted. Manning the Wall was essentially considered to be the one duty where you had a damn good chance of dying, as it required everyone on top to either provide covering fire for the artillerists, or required the Regiment to man the artillery pieces themselves if the crews were killed. So far, in the past month, they had already lost about 200 men to Wall duty—his own regiment having lost about 14 of those. Arguably, that was an incredibly small number, but for modern warfare, it was already too many.

"Same formation as last time?" asked Harry as he moved over to his cheap wooden desk to retrieve the helmet on top. He saw the Major nod from the corner of his eye.

"Aye. Let the other companies worry about covering fire. We've got babysitting duty this time around."

Harry nodded silently, his outstretched hand still on the helmet on his desk. "When do you figure the siege will end?" he asked suddenly, and felt, more than saw, the Major shrug.

"Way I see it, White, the only way the siege will end is if Whitehall decides to launch a strike along the northern coast," the Major replied.

Harry snorted. "What are the odds of _that_ happening anytime soon?" he muttered.

* * *

**HMS Swift, Bay of Biscay, Atlantic Ocean, January 27****th****, 2009…**

"Hey, White?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Remember when you asked what the odds were of Whitehall launching an amphibious attack on the northern coast of Spain?"

Harry sighed. "With all due respect, sir, shut up."

Major Miles laughed as he and his subordinate watched the fierce waters of the Bay of Biscay rock the ship every which way. It wasn't even stormy, and yet the waters were horribly choppy.

Harry sighed again. The past few weeks had been something of a whirlwind. First of all, garrison duty at the Wall of Gibraltar had become so repetitive for most of the men that, even though they'd been there less than a year, they already knew every nook and cranny the Wall had to offer. Added to that was the monotony of waiting for their turn on the Wall, coupled with almost _zero_ avenues of entertainment, and the 75th Regiment was just about ready to blow its brains out from boredom.

Then, not a week ago, word had come that that the Royal Navy had scored a great victory off the Gulf of Cadiz, scattering the Spanish Navy's blockade, but not ultimately destroying them—much to everyone's chagrin in Gibraltar. At the very least, however, it had given the authorities time enough to begin a mass evacuation of the civilians still trapped in Gibraltar, and the 75th Regiment had been tapped to go back to England as well, mostly thanks to their stellar combat record, thus far (not that it amounted to much). Normally, however, that would be reason enough to make them _stay_, as good units were always great things to have in defensive fortifications. Major Miles, however, had intimated that a possible reason for their redeployment was to get them to participate in an invasion of northern Spain. Harry had scoffed at the idea, stating that the Spanish Navy would never allow such a thing to happen.

And then the Battle of Biscay happened five days ago.

The Royal Navy, in quite possibly what would otherwise have been considered to be an incredibly idiotic plan, had essentially spearheaded its force directly into the path of the bulk of the Spanish Navy. Once engaged, however, the Royal Navy seemingly decided to cut its losses and retreated, drawing the encouraged Spanish Navy deeper into the Bay of Biscay—just in time for one of the Bay's most infamous storms: the Klaus storm.

Despite not being a hurricane in and of itself, the storm succeeded in throwing about hurricane-level winds at the two fleets. What the Spanish never expected, however, was that the British had been banking on a windstorm in the Bay, and had been purposefully training since the beginning of the siege of Gibraltar in choppy waters to acclimate the sailors to the conditions they would likely face. The Spanish, however, had never considered that the British would plan to fight in a way most navies around the world would have called "fucking retarded," and were thus caught off guard when the 193 km/h winds hit their fleet.

The subsequent confusion allowed the much more trained and organized British fleet to pick off the scattered Spaniards one by one, until the bulk of the Spanish Navy protecting the northern coastline was either routed, damaged, captured, or sunk.

So impossibly amazing was this victory, and the opportunity it provided, that upon making landfall in England, the 75th Regiment was _immediately_ reassigned to the amphibious invasion force of 450,000 men, or three field armies. From the briefing, he knew that about 60,000 more troops were to be dropped from the air behind the enemy defences, ready to help link up the three major landing sites.

The 75th Regiment had been assigned to the Second Army, the one going straight down the middle of the Spanish coastline near San Vicente de la Barquera. Unlike the other Armies, the Second would be the only one whose landing site would technically be divided into two, and most certainly the only one whose immediate goals included storming a nearby populated area for control of a vital bridge, without which it would be impossible to link up with the First Army at Gijón, and the Third Army at A Coruña. Of course, the trade-off for not being the Army to take on Gijón was that they would not have to storm a major city from the front.

The faint sound of an alarm reached Harry's ears then, muffled slightly by the crashing sound of waves and the still heavy winds left behind by the Klaus storm. Harry knew the alarm well, having been treated to continuous renditions of it during the briefing so that he would be able to discern it in his sleep.

Invasion imminent.

Major Miles seemed to have realized the importance of the sound as well and put out his cigar on the railing, a grimace on his face. No soldier enjoyed the idea of an amphibious attack, mostly because it was so damn obvious; and since it was obvious, it meant the defenders had a leg up on getting ready while the attackers loaded the landing crafts and sped ashore.

"Day of days, eh?" he heard the Major mutter.

Harry smirked. "Hour of hours," he agreed.

Both of them stared at the increasingly apparent horizon with an unspoken sense of foreboding for a moment.

Harry sighed, pushing himself off the railing and turning to follow his superior. "Well, here we go."

* * *

**Off "Ripon Beach"; Rupuente, Spain, January 27****th****, 2009 (D-Day)…**

Harry was impassive as he and the men of his company were lowered down to the inner dockyard of the HMS Swift, one of the twenty _Wasp-class _Amphibious Assault Ships that the UK had bought from the United States in the 1990s. It was almost daunting to think that he was on the verge of becoming part of quite possibly the single most massive amphibious infantry invasions of human military history. Even the Normandy landings had not involved as many troops.

Even with twenty AAS-type ship, however, there were not enough to carry the three invasion forces by themselves. As such, it was necessary for the split forces to spearhead the landings with considerably smaller forces, and the rest would then have to follow after being transferred onto the HMS Swift and its brethren.

Unfortunately—or fortunately—the 75th Regiment had been tapped to be one of those who would spearhead the landing of the Second Army, and Harry's Charlie Company in particular had been handpicked to be the third Company to hit the beach. Why? He had no idea.

Or, at least, he _had_ no idea until he got summoned to a secret briefing by General Cameron, the commanding officer of the Second Army. Apparently, he had been briefed by the upper echelons of the military brass about his magical abilities, and they had decided to give him a field run—and what better time to do this than when assaulting heavy positions?

Harry was uncomfortable with the mission, if he was completely honest with himself. Certainly, he understood that he had offered the brass the opportunity to use him as a human weapon back at Sandhurst, but he had also imagined that fear of the Ministry of Magic getting wise of their use of mages in the open would have restrained them.

Then again, that would explain why they had waited this long. Well, that, and the fact that in war, fiery explosions would be common enough to pass off his abilities as mere artillery fire. More so when a massive invasion was underway.

Of course, the trade-off was that now the men of his Regiment knew what he was, considering how impossible it would be to keep it a secret from all of them once he unleashed his magic on the enemy. It was fortunate, then, that he had trained with most of them from his time as Second Lieutenant, and so most, if not all of them, trusted him as one of their own, no matter what special powers he had. Perhaps the same attitude would not be as widespread in the other regiments, but at least he now knew that the Liverpudlians would have his back. It also helped that the briefing had insisted his name was Francis White, thereby preventing the Ministry of Magic from immediately finding him should his presence in the military leak out.

"Word has it that about 25,000 men were just transferred to the First Army," Miles told him as they awaited the end of their descent into the bowels of the ship. "Field Marshal's orders," he added unnecessarily.

Harry nodded impassively. "He's drawing attention off of our group," he interpreted. "By making the assault on Gijón look like the most vital attack, he ensures that the Spanish will rush to protect it, thereby leaving the central coastline open for us."

He felt Miles' eyes on him for a moment before the feeling disappeared. "Scary mind you've got there, White."

Harry shrugged. "Strategically speaking, it even makes sense to protect Gijón over San Vicente. Gijón is smack in the centre of our overall deployment zone, and a port city, while San Vicente is, at best, a small city—at worst, a large town," he analyzed. "Of course, that's if you approach this whole situation at face value."

Miles nodded beside him. "Right. Who could have thought that rather than consolidating our forces at Gijón and driving south to Gibraltar…"

"…our _real_ target was much more appetizing than that?" concluded Harry with a somewhat sinister smile, enlarging it as the elevator finally stopped. "Right, sir?" he asked Miles.

Miles emulated his subordinate's confident smile. "That's right," he confirmed softly. "Besiege a city to save a city. What a crazy idea."

"Effective, though," Harry pointed out. "After all…which do you think the Spanish value more: Gibraltar…or Santander?"

* * *

**Off "Ripon Beach"; Rupuente, Spain, January 27****th****, 2009…**

Harry was glad he had never been struck with seasickness. At this moment, it would have undoubtedly been one of the most debilitating weaknesses a person could have.

Thus, instead of looking sick and feeling weakened, Harry quietly enjoyed the feeling of the boat jumping from wave crest to wave crest as it zoomed ever closer to the beach, where the Spanish guns had already opened up on the incoming transports. A lot of the men in the company had begun looking at him oddly, as if expecting him to put a stop to the guns immediately. While it was true that this was his job, he also knew that distance played an important factor in magic. A single-shot spell cast over a long distance would inevitably lose its potency as it travels, due to the concentrated magical energy loosening up due to air friction. Similarly, an enduring-shot spell that requires constant control would require more magic and focus over longer distances. At the distance they were now, neither type of spell would do much damage, were Harry to cast them.

Furthermore, he knew that he could not rely on single-shot spells to take out the entire coastal defences, as that would take an inordinate amount of time. Thus, he had to cast his most powerful fire spell in his arsenal—one that he _knew_ he needed to be closer than he was to adequately manage. If he lost control for even a second, it could potentially spell the deaths of quite a few of his allies. That wasn't something he was about to risk.

He perked up as he heard the footsteps of someone coming closer to him at the forefront of the deck, just behind the landing ramp.

"Pilot says we're about a minute away from landfall," he heard Miles tell him.

Harry nodded, his crossed arms stiffening a little as he tensed up for the waited moment. "Tell the lads not to rush up, sir," he advised. "What I'm about to do…it's going to be lethal."

Miles nodded. "You do what you have to, White," he replied sombrely. "You're saving the lives of our men—can't fault you for that, even if you've got freaky powers."

Harry nodded, the Major's words steeling his resolve even further. Every Spanish death at the hands of his magic would ensure one more Briton got to go home and see their loved ones again. It was not his job to worry about the enemy; it was his job to worry about his own men.

Several, succeeding snaps of his fingers caused slight sparks to appear as his anticipation grew, the small, insignificant fiery explosions lightly hitting his Number 8 uniform without effect, his magic having taken very little form with the snaps.

Even so, it got Miles staring at the display with some awe and concern. Harry did not blame him—most average folk never even got to see that much magic, as far as he understood.

"That's…not going to set you on fire, is it?" asked Miles warily. "Or, y'know, blow us up?"

Harry chuckled. "No, sir, it won't. You and the lads will be perfectly safe from me," he assured the older man with a smile. "It's the Spaniards that have to worry."

"THIRTY SECONDS!"

Harry could hear the men behind him go over their weapons one last time, the tell tale clicking noises suggesting many had released and then reinserted their magazines into their assault rifles after a hasty inspection. For his part, Harry unfolded his arms from his chest and slid his feet such that he was presenting only his right side was presented as a target to the Spanish hidden behind the LCU's boarding ramp. Only a hint of concern ran through him as the shell-fire from the beach fortifications grew scarily closer with each miss. The LCU had been sent rocking several times from a missed shell.

Harry's secure footing kept him from stumbling forward or backwards as the LCU finally hit the beach at full speed, the sudden stop causing many of the soldiers at his back to stumble forward. Almost immediately, the sound of fully automatic machine guns opening fire ripped into his hearing, the metallic pings of ricochets adding to the cacophony of explosions and screams as the occasional soldier was hit directly or indirectly.

"CONTACT!" screamed the LCU operator, a note of hysteria in his voice as several bullets threatened to tear through the bullet-proof glass. "GO!"

Harry was ready.

The moment the ramp started to lower in front of him, his eyes widened as he took in the intended targets before him and then narrowed in concentration until it looked like he was giving the enemy an angry glare. As he breathed in a deep breath, the machine gun nests apparently only beginning to redirect their fire at his LCU, Harry felt time slow down as he willed his elevated hand to curl and his fingers to snap.

For a moment, everything seemed to stop as he whispered the incantation.

"_Incendium Malus_,"

Snap.

The moment Harry's fingers snapped, a spark, like every other time, erupted just off his index finger. The difference between then and now, however, was that the spark didn't just stop at this stage, but instead shot forward like a red-orange lightning bolt, headed straight for the bunker directly in Harry's line of sight, right atop the hill of fortifications. Naturally, that made it enemy number one for Harry, and so it was to be the first victim of Britain's new field weapon.

The reddish lightning bolt suddenly began to expand a few meters away from Harry, just as time seemed to speed back up to normal. It grew wider, until it was a foot wide in diameter, and then proceeded to lose its cohesion as tongues of flame shot out from the cylindrical shape of the fire, each one in turn giving birth to millions of smaller tongues, each increasing in length and width as they began to shoot every which way away from the invasion force, like millions of angry, fiery snakes.

When the flames hit the ground, the impact was as though an anvil had been dropped onto the sand, and when the flames shot back up, only a thin sheet of glass was left behind—a testament to the sheer power of each of the serpentine flames.

"Jesus Christ…" Harry heard a man breathe behind him.

Ignoring the exclamation, Harry instead narrowed his eyes imperceptibly more as he concentrated on his spell, causing the wild tongues of flame to come together just thirty meters away from the bunker, which had, along with its nearby defenders, stopped firing on the invasion force out of shock of what was going on. The serpentine tongues coalesced into a single massive fiery entity before everyone's eyes, rising up and coiling as though it truly were a snake. Slowly, features became apparent on the large fiery coil, as a head seemed to form, followed by hollowed out cavities that everyone who could see imagined were the eyes of the hellish creature. Then, to every defender's horror, the serpent-like figure of fire opened its jaws, and fangs, still made out of fire, became apparent as it seemed ready to strike at its prey.

This was enough to shock the defenders out of their incredulous stupor as they redirected _all_ of their fire towards the fiery serpent. Artillery shells and common bullets alike struck the fire serpent without any sort of visible success. Those bullets or shells that made it close enough to penetrate the fire serpent's body without melting in the process did so on contact, and it did not seem as though the creature was hurting any from the impact.

Then, seemingly peeved at the pitiful attacks towards its person, the snake struck its designated bunker. Almost instantly, the entire structure appeared to ignite—even the concrete itself seemed on fire as the serpent engulfed the structure in flames. Harry could hear no screams from within, but wasn't surprised. The extraordinary heat would have consumed the air within seconds of the fire engulfing the bunker. Well, that and he was too far away to begin with.

The effects of his flame, however, were immediate. Already, he could see numerous Spanish soldiers jump out of their gun nests and rushing back over the hill in desperate retreat, the sudden loss of one of their fortified bunkers to the strange fire enough to cripple their morale. Had it been artillery, or even an infantry assault, they would have probably held the line, but this strange occurrence had been completely otherworldly, and so Harry could not blame them for their fear.

However, his job was not done. Glancing to the south, where the rest of the 2nd Army would be disembarking soon, he saw that some of the more stalwart defenders had resumed their attacks on his compatriots. Thus, with a twitch of his extended right index finger, the fiery serpent ceased its fiery feast of the bunker and raised its head to look at its new targets.

This time, Harry _did_ hear the screams.

Short bursts of yelling would precede the immediate vaporizing of hundreds, if not thousands of men as the serpent lashed out across the entire hill, its head or body consuming all nearby objects as it moved with undaunted tenacity towards its next meal. His superiors would undoubtedly ask for bodies for examination, but Harry knew that was impossible to ask of the fiery serpent. All it touched turned to ash. By the end of the battle, there would be no life on this hill, and the ashes of its defenders would mix with the ashes of nature.

Soon, the serpent coiled before Harry, staring down at him impassively, three stories up, as though either deciding whether or not to feast on its creator as well or follow its commands. Harry knew it was neither—the creature had no intelligence of its own. It was a mere construct of his will—an extension of his power. It would dissipate whenever he ordered it to, and there was nothing it could do to stop him.

"Good work," he praised it nonetheless, staring at it dully as it bobbed its head once before slowly dissipating as he cut the magical link that fed its existence. By the time the wind had scattered the fiery beast, Harry was practically on his knees from the exhaustion the spell had inflicted on him. Sure, he had the power to vaporize the Crown's enemies, but he had his limits as well, and it seemed he was nearly reaching it. That would fix itself, however—lack of continuous, open use had ensured that his magical reserves were not all that impressive, but now that he was probably going to be allowed to use his fire magic at the fore of the 2nd Army, he would have sufficient practice to increase his reserves.

Harry turned his gaze back onto the fortifications, or what were left of them. As far to the south as he could see, there were still fires burning the last of the grass and bodies away. To the north, the same sight reached his eyes, a testament to the destructive power of his spell. Harry winced slightly as he felt his right wrist ache from the amount of magic he had channelled, and quickly proceeded to rub it. It was one of the drawbacks of not having a wand, he supposed. Having no such conduit meant that he was forced to convert his entire body into a wand, which meant that the taxation that the wand would typically go through was instead forcing itself on his body. Again, with practice, he was sure he would be able to make the aches go away.

With the screams gone and the guns silenced, however, the silence was practically deafening as everyone in the 2nd Army landing force stared wide-eyed at the destruction before them. Patches of sand were turned to coated glass, and the whole of the hillside seemed to have turned a mixture of grey and black—ash and carbon. It was, in a word, horrendous to look at.

"Christ, White…" he heard Miles speak from beside him. "Remind me never to piss you off…"

Harry chuckled. "I fear I am not powerful enough to do this sort of thing more than once a day at this moment, sir," he assured his superior. "Fiendfyre is an extremely difficult spell to master, and taxing as _hell_."

Harry imagined that Miles nodded at his explanation, before seeing him move past him and down the ramp. About to set foot on the beach, he suddenly stopped and looked back at Harry anxiously.

"It…_is_ safe to move on the beach and hill, right?" he asked warily. Hell, for all he knew, the very sand could be superheated—nevermind the carbon-black hill.

Harry smiled reassuringly and nodded. "It should be fine. If you want, I can clear a path using water magic, just to be sure," he offered. He almost laughed as he watched Miles quickly shake his head.

"NO!" the man all but squeaked. "No, no…thanks, but…I think we've all taken in as much as we can for one day," he said apologetically, glancing behind Harry at the waiting soldiers of Charlie Company.

Looking back, Harry had to prevent himself from grimacing at the sight. Most of his comrades were staring at him with obvious fear, while a few seemed quietly respectful, yet still wary. It was inevitable, he supposed. He would have to earn his men's trust from scratch.

Looking back towards his handiwork, Harry sighed.

Well, at least the first field test had been successful.

* * *

**Comillas, Spain, January 30****th****, 2009 (D-Day +3)…**

"INCOMING!"

Harry all but threw himself into the residential building at his side, just as a mortar shell exploded in the street he had been occupying seconds earlier.

"FUCK!" he yelled, still a little shaken by the near-death experience.

The assault towards Santander had quickly run into problems. Where the British had thought the Spaniards would never imagine such a roundabout strategy to conquer a port city, the local garrison forces had more than anticipated the British plan, and had moved to block the 2nd Army at Comillas, less than an hour away from their landing sites.

Apparently more courageous than their national army colleagues, the local forces had not deserted their posts upon seeing Harry's fire magic, instead redoubling their efforts as they defended the homes they'd been living in all their lives. It was a sentiment Harry could empathize with, but not one he wished they had. A determined enemy, even in numerically inferior groups, could still inflict quite a bit of damage on a larger force. At the very least, if they got bogged down here at Comillas, then there was a chance that Santander would send reinforcements and possibly precipitate a battle that the British High Command knew they could not win. Hell, most of the planning behind the conquest of Santander relied on the element of surprise, coupled with momentum and speed. So far, they had successfully surrounded Comillas, thereby cutting off communications with the outside, and had captured or destroyed any vehicles that came their way.

The problem was, however, that the town would not give up, no matter what the British tried. Even with about 75% of the town in British hands, the defenders held staunchly to their positions, and they were incurring much more casualties than the brass liked. While Harry dearly hoped that would not be the case, he knew that if the 2nd Army didn't resume their progress towards Santander soon, he would be ordered to vaporize the town.

Looking up from his position on the hardwood floors, he was surprised to see a small family huddled in the corner, obviously terrified of him. Harry blinked in confusion—he had thought the townsfolk had been evacuated long ago to the castle overlooking the town. Yet, here they were.

He tried to smile at them reassuringly, but was disheartened when the wife and daughter seemed to curl deeper into the husband's protective embrace, while the man shouted at him in Spanish—no doubt telling him to get out and leave them alone.

It wasn't odd to Harry anymore. At first, granted, it was a little crushing to see such fear on the faces of people, but the fighting at San Vicente had shown him countless such faces that he now didn't care as much. Nor did he blame them, really—what must he have looked like to them, covered in blood that wasn't his, grime, and ash? Had they seen him on the beach at Rupuente, they would have undoubtedly been even more scared than they were now. The man probably wouldn't be shouting, but rather crying like his wife and daughter.

His eyes flittered around, taking in the sight of the house. Judging from the furniture, he was in the living room, which also seemed to double as the dining room. Hanging prominently next to the table was a large blue flag with the fascist yoke and arrows symbol of the Spanish Phalanx—the enemy of Britain. His mind raced. Had they been taken in by the propaganda, or were they true believers? What had caused them to support such evil men and women, who would happily plunge their country into war?

The patriarch of the family seemed to notice his observation of the fascist flag and his chest swelled with pride, answering Harry's curiosity. The man was a true supporter. He would not be dissuaded from the fascist cause. Hell, the only reason he seemed to be with his family instead of the militia the 75th Regiment was fighting all over town was that nasty scar Harry spotted on the man's left ankle—the skin of which had been briefly shown when the man shifted his legs.

Harry grimaced openly now as he got to his feet. Barely a few seconds had gone by since he had jumped into this house for safety, and already he was feeling like he'd just jumped into another type of battlefield. What _was_ it with fanatics? What made them tick? Why were they throwing their lives away against a numerically and technologically superior foe?

Harry looked at the cowering family once more and raised a hand to motion them to stay put. "Stay here," he told them slowly, hoping they would understand. You never knew with country locals.

Either way, the man seemed to get the message, but snarled back in response. Clearly he had a problem with Harry's very existence, and Harry was all too willing to get the hell out of the house before he got knifed in the back by the crippled man.

Moving slowly to the front door—whose actual door had been blasted out of existence—Harry put himself against the doorframe and peeked out to see whether the coast was clear. He smiled as he saw a few of Charlie Company rush by, seemingly missing his presence as they rushed to deal with the remaining militia. That could only spell good news—perhaps the mortar nest had finally been taken care of.

Glancing back at the family, he watched them silently for a few seconds before nodding at them and then rushing back out, assault rifle levelled and ready to continue the fight.

By the sound of the persistent gunfire in the air, there was still a lot of killing to do.

* * *

**Santander, Spain, February 4****th****, 2009 (D-Day +7)…**

Harry fell flat on his stomach as an explosion tore apart the façade of the building he was taking cover in, along with elements of Charlie Company.

"_Again_ with the _fucking_ explosions!" he yelled angrily as the dust settled from the mortar shell's destructive blast. "How many _fucking _mortars do they _have_?"

A cough near him told him of other survivors from the blast, much to his relief.

"Status report!" he yelled, trying to clear out the ringing from his own ear all the while.

"Shit! Mendel is down!" he heard one of the privates shouted, a note of hysteria in his voice.

"MEDIC!" he heard another roar.

"Settle down!" he ordered loudly. "Status report, now!" he repeated.

There were numerous mutterings throughout the small group before someone spoke up to answer his demand. "Five down, seventeen still good to go, sir!"

Harry cursed. That shell had taken quite a bit of his current forces—not that they were technically assigned to him. Assaulting the city had pretty much forced the 75th Regiment to scatter as the initial assault stalled upon hitting the city defences. Even though the 2nd Army had been headed by a column of Challenger 2 Main Battle Tanks, the routes into the city had been barricaded against armour, causing the column to have to move away from the infantry and try to find another way in via the township of San Román to the north. Thus stripped of armour support, and in dire need to keep advancing so that Santander would fall as quickly as possible, the 15,000-man 5th Division kept its steady march towards Santander, hoping that the armoured column would be able to link up further into the city.

Not even ten blocks in, however, and the infantry had been forced to scatter into a thin line as they were almost immediately beset by Spanish regulars, coupled with some of the more patriotic civilians. Considering that the defenders had the advantage of terrain, it made for a pretty damn screwed up situation.

Harry cursed as he got to one side of the newly made hole in the wall and peered out, pulling back his head just as a sniper bullet missed his left eye by millimetres.

"SHIT!" he cursed, stumbling back. "_Fucking sniper!_"

He noticed the rest of his men form up either behind him or on the other side of the hole, all of them taking great care not to show any part of their bodies now that the sniper had been identified.

"Where?" asked a private behind him.

Harry peered out again and just as quickly pulled back, somehow evading the sniper's vigilant sights.

"Beige building, fourth floor, second apartment from the left," he noted. "Anyone know if Miller is on sniping duty?" he then asked.

Head shakes greeted him, much to his frustration. "Damnit!" he cursed, his mind quickly thinking through different approaches to the problem. The most plausible one he came up with did _not_ please him. "Okay, new plan then."

He pointed at the man opposite him on the other side of the hole. "Jackson, take Porter and Macmillan and storm the building to the left on the other side of the street. Harrison," he addressed the man behind him. "You take Blithe, Mansfield, Stone, and Cummings and get the building on the right. Rest of you, covering fire, on my mark!"

There were silent nods at his command, all of them ready to move on his order. "Who'll take down the sniper, sir?" asked Harrison.

"I've got him," Harry assured him. "Your job is to take his eyes off of me while I get ready."

Harrison nodded seriously. "Aye, sir."

Confident that his men understood their roles, Harry shifted his stance a bit to get ready and dropped his assault rifle, so that it hung at his side by its sling. Raising a hand, he spread his fingers and made sure that the men both to his front and looked at the designated leads, who nodded back at him to denote their readiness.

He pumped his arm once and then curled one finger. Four remained.

The soldiers' grips on their weapons tightened. Another digit went down. Three remained. The sound of gunfire elsewhere in the city intensified as the fighting continued to ravage the city. Two digits remain. The sound of a mortar blast up the street pierces their ears—one of the privates flinches instinctively but quickly regains his focus. One digit remains. The hands of every soldier have turned nearly ghostly white from the strength of their grip. They take a deep breath.

Harry lowers his index finger. No digits remain.

With a sudden cry designed to grab attention, the two groups suddenly sprint out of the building towards their targets, confusing the sniper momentarily as he becomes undecided which group to target first. One has more troops and thus are less liable to be impeded by a single kill, but they were headed towards a location he would have a hard time surveying, while the others were smaller in number, but headed directly into his blind spot.

By the time he made his decision, however, it was already too late.

The remaining soldiers by Harry's side came into view then, firing their assault rifles directly at where the sniper was purported to be, causing the lone Spaniard to have to duck his head to avoid getting it blasted off. They weren't the real danger, however, and if the sniper had been part of the defenders at Rupuente, he would have known this.

From behind the sudden wall of soldiers massed at the hole in the wall came out Harry, his uniform making him undistinguishable from his comrades, except for the three pips on his shoulder lapels. For a moment, the sniper wondered why the man seemingly abandoned the protective wall his comrades made, and why he was raising his hand in his direction, as though prepared to snap his fingers.

Harry closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then opened them once more, a completely uncaring look in his eyes as he condemned yet another person to a fiery death.

"_Ardere._"

Snap.

Harry watched impassively as the reddish spark turned into a bolt like before, except this time it raced all the way to the apartment where the sniper was hiding, and _there_ exploded with such intensity that the entire floor was vaporized. Fortunately, no other floors had existed on top of that one, so no additional collateral damage was done.

The soldiers around him and at the two buildings to his front paused long enough to cheer before he raised a hand to stop them.

"Celebrate later," he ordered impassively. "That's bound to have attracted their attention. We're relocating to Objective Alpha. Mansfield, you take point. Move out."

There was a chorus of acknowledgements, and then only the sound of boots hitting ground, followed by the silence of death.

* * *

**Santander, Spain, February 8****th****, 2009 (D-Day +12)…**

Harry didn't know what to feel at the moment.

On the one hand, he felt a bit of awe as he stood within the richly decorated Palacio de la Magdalena—one of the prominent sites of Santander, and the current HQ of the 2nd Army's Eastern Offensive. It was, as the whole city now was, a symbol of British victory.

Nevermind that half the city was also _on fire_.

If the brass had wanted Santander intact, they would be sorely disappointed. Between the artillery barrages, the tank column blasting its way through the north, and Harry's own devastating fire magic, most of the city was in ruins. Only the port had been spared from the devastation, and that was mostly because there were specific orders to prevent that from happening. Harry's own kill count had risen considerably in this one siege.

Which, considering the fact that it only took about 5 days, was not bad at all—it had nonetheless already claimed too many people for his liking, both on his side and on the enemy's.

On the other hand, Harry felt a lot of anxiety and depression rushing through him. In the very last day of fighting, Major Miles had been shot by an undiscovered Spanish sniper practically in the middle of Charlie Company. The resulting rage that had coursed through Harry had levelled a whole city block once he'd snapped his fingers, burying the unseen murderer beneath metric tons of concrete and steel.

This, of course, meant that there was now an opening in the Regiment's hierarchy, and while he wasn't technically the most senior of the Captains, he had been told by his Company lieutenants that he was by far the most distinguished. This meant that he felt the apprehension of a potential promotion, coupled with the anxiety of having to fill Major Miles' considerable shoes.

Added to these feelings, however, was a desire to take the promotion, and more. He wanted Charlie Company behind him the way it had stood behind Miles. He wanted to one day replace Colonel Strider as leader of the 75th Regiment, and in so doing have his voice heard by the generals leading the campaign, so that less of his men would have to die pointless deaths.

This entire assault on Santander had been clumsily handled from the very beginning, he felt. Rather than try to bum-rush the city, the Division should have taken its time the moment it found the roadblocks. With the Challenger tanks providing close support through the whole ordeal, it would have then become easier to maintain unit cohesion, rather than have nearly fifteen thousand men spread out throughout the entire city, trying to desperately maintain some sort of communication with the rest of the Division.

He wasn't the only one feeling disgruntled, either. He had been informed that numerous other junior officers and some field officers also felt that the attack could have gone better. The degree to which they blamed Major General Johnson varied, of course. Some placed all the blame on him, while others conceded that there were numerous other factors in play. Regardless of the degree, however, it was clear that everyone held some measure of ill feelings for Major General Johnson.

But to Harry, all of those feelings had to be suppressed now, as he stood before the door leading to Colonel Strider's office. With Miles and Lieutenant Colonel Avery dead, and the other two Lieutenant Colonels laid out in a hospital, Strider was his immediate superior, and he had ordered him to show up at his office.

Knocking gently at the door, he waited until he heard the invitation to come inside before opening the door. Inside, he was surprised to see Lieutenant Colonel Williams sitting to one side of Colonel Strider's desk, his left arm in a sling and a bloody bandage around his head. Colonel Strider, as expected, was sitting at his desk, the grim-faced man staring holes into Harry as he came inside and closed the door before going rigid at attention and saluting.

"At ease, Captain," Strider said impassively before motioning for Harry to take a seat.

Once seated, Strider spoke up again. "Before we begin," he started. "Please give me your company status report, Captain."

Harry nodded firmly. "We have sustained moderate casualties, sir. Out of a total of two-hundred men at the start of the invasion, we lost none at Rupuente, fifteen died at Comillas and five had to be evacuated to a hospital due to injuries; ten more died at Torrelavega, three were injured but did not need hospital treatment; two were injured at Santa Cruz de Bezana, and thirteen died here in Santander, with ten wounded, three of them critical," he recited dutifully. "Sir, that gives Charlie Company a total of thirty-eight dead and eight critical wounded."

By the time he was done, he could see that Colonel Strider was looking even more grim-faced. He imagined that, as the third Captain of the 75th being called in, the poor man had to have gotten bad news all day so far. He felt bad for the man, but realized this was probably not going to change throughout the war.

"Damn, we're getting hammered, Isaac," Lieutenant-Colonel Williams breathed. "That's, what? Already about a hundred fifty dead across the Regiment?" he asked. "And we're not even done getting all the reports in!"

Colonel Strider nodded his head wearily, putting his face in his hands as though his head was too much of a burden to lift up at this point. Harry felt bad for the man, he did, but at the same time knew that this was not likely to change throughout the war.

"Johnson's going to get us all killed," he heard the Colonel mutter, unsure if that was _meant_ to be heard, or if the Colonel had just spoken a little louder than he thought he'd had. "Anyway, down to business. Jeremy, if you would?"

Lt. Colonel Williams nodded and made to stand up, eliciting a similar response from Harry until Strider waved him down, before using his good hand to rifle in his pocket and take out two small, black cases. He promptly tossed them over to Harry, who instinctively caught them.

"Congratulations, Major White," Strider congratulated him. "You are now officially CO of Charlie Company, though due to current…lack of manpower, we are further giving you temporary command of First Battalion, while Lieutenant-Colonel Sink recovers from his wounds. We expect great things of you."

Harry saluted the Colonel stiffly, a proud look in his eyes. "Thank you, sir!" he replied earnestly. While it was not the way he'd wished he'd get promoted—over the bloodied corpse of his predecessor—it nonetheless did fulfil one of his immediate, short-term goals.

Strider saluted back, as did Lt. Colonel Williams, before then motioning to the second black case. "Open it, Major," he suggested.

When Harry did so, he found himself confused. The insignia inside it was not one he was familiar with—a wand and rifle crossed over a crown. "Sir?" he asked confusedly.

Strider glanced over at Williams, meeting each other's eyes, and then back at Harry. "White, in light of your numerous successful uses of offensive magic on the battlefield, High Command has decided to tack onto you a new title—one any future mages in the Armed Forces would also use once vetted and trained," he explained.

"Military Mage," Williams stated simply.

Strider nodded. "Quite so. That will be your new title, to be affixed before any rank you have at the time," he explained further. "Thus, as of now, you are to be known as Military Mage Major Francis White whenever you use official documentation or give official verbal reports."

Williams grinned. "Be thankful. The first thing they came up with was Military-Sanctioned War Mage. Bit of a mouthful, isn't it?" he asked jocularly.

Harry nodded, a little uncertain about this move. "Sirs? Respectfully, may I ask a question?"

Strider nodded and motioned for him to continue.

"Thank you, sir. Does this mean that my status as a mage will become public knowledge?" he asked warily.

To Harry's enormous relief, Strider shook his head in the negative. "Absolutely not, Major," he stated gruffly. "As before, your status as a mage is to be confined to the brass and the 2nd Army. In the event that your skills are required elsewhere, measures will be taken to prevent your secret from getting out."

Harry nodded, his body language noticeably far less tense now. "Thank you, sirs," he said with a smile.

Strider nodded right back. "You're welcome Major. Now then, a final piece of business. Due to your now official status as a Military Mage, you are being given a codename for field transmissions," he told Harry. "This is to allow the Army to speak to you without revealing your identity as a Military Mage to the enemy."

Harry nodded. "I understand, sir. What is to be my codename?"

Strider pulled out an envelope from his desk drawer and handed it over, undoubtedly full of the official documentation of everything that had been spoken of during this meeting. "Hellfire."

* * *

**Burgos, Spain, April 15****th****, 2009 (D-Day +68)…**

Charlie Company had not fared well for the past month.

While its success rate was practically unmatched, the casualties it was receiving were, in a word, debilitating. Even with replacements pouring in from Britain, there was no stopping the fact that the Battalion was losing almost as many people as it was receiving per battle—usually because the 75th Regiment was always being called to fight in the most dangerous locations as a direct result of their incredible success rate.

Furthermore, being the temporary Battalion CO, Harry was the one feeling the burden the most, considering that he had resorted to using his Fire magic to save as many of his men's lives as he could—and _still_ that wasn't good enough. He literally could not be everywhere, and as a result, men died as the brass, despite Colonel Strider's objections, decided to fling the 75th Regiment at every major target without realizing the damage they were doing.

Morale was at an all time low in the Battalion, despite Harry's best efforts. It wasn't that the soldiers would not listen to him, but they were quickly becoming jaded, unwilling to believe that they would make it out of the war—which in turn fed some unhealthy, borderline suicidal habits. Some soldiers had taken to walking on the battlefield, for instance, rather than running. Their sense of self-preservations had been shot to hell, and now the Company was seeing the results in the rising death toll. Out of the original 200 soldiers of Charlie Company, for example, only about 75 remained, with the rest being made up of replacements. Harry had even heard of some Rupuente veterans who, after getting flung at every major combat zone thereafter, had shot themselves from the mental exhaustion.

This newest mission of their was no better, either. The 75th Regiment had been, _yet again_, called upon to be the vanguard of the 2nd Army's strike south. While the 1st Army would take Valladolid, and the 3rd Army struck at Ponferrada and Vigo, the 2nd Army was to pacify the north-eastern sector, which, to an extent, they had successfully accomplished. However, they had one more major target to get rid of: Burgos.

A major regional centre, it stood between the 2nd Army and Madrid, and successful capture of the city would mean that the southern Spanish forces would _have_ to redirect their efforts to protecting Madrid, rather than fighting equally on all fronts. Already, the invasion up north had gotten the Spaniards to back off of Gibraltar, and a 4th Army had been deployed there by sea to open up a second front. From the scant few reports Harry had gotten his hands on, the 4th Army had just managed to secure Cadiz, and were working on Malaga.

Still, being a regional centre, it meant that Burgos was proportionately defended. The Spanish Eastern Army, they found out, was defending the city, and considering the trouble that the 2nd Army had in fighting them across north-eastern Spain, they were not an opponent to sneeze at.

In fact, they were one of the most difficult opponents the British had yet to meet. When Harry led his Company into battle that day, they barely dented the city defences. The Eastern Army had taken careful precautions to avoid the repeat defeats from the north-east and had dug themselves in quite efficiently, such that even an artillery barrage made minimal impact on the enemy's combat efficiency.

Even worse was the fact that there were reports of reinforcements from Madrid moving up the highway to come to the aid of the Eastern Army. So far, satellite images had counted a full Corps moving up, meaning that the 2nd Army would be in dire straights if the Eastern Army and the reinforcements managed to link up. Fortunately Major General Johnson had managed to realize the danger the reinforcements posed, and had as such sent elements of the 2nd Army to capture Villalmanzo and blockade the highway there. The rest of the army, meanwhile, would surround Burgos and lay siege to the well-entrenched defenders.

Observing the city from his place in a comfortable apartment on the outskirts of the city where part of his Company had dug in, Harry watched as central Burgos burned under the mass barrage of the 2nd Army's support artillery. Knowing that his men were relaxing behind him, fully enjoying the comforts of the well-furnished apartment, Harry walked over to a particularly enticing loveseat and settled in for the wait.

* * *

**Burgos, Spain, May 4, 2009 (D-Day +87)…**

The worst part of a promotion, Harry felt, was the paperwork. Since becoming Major and temporary head of First Battalion, Harry had been essentially pulled from the front lines and been forced to either stay at the back, or sit in some makeshift office and look at papers that more often than not were combat reports from his Captains and Majors—something that elicited quite a bit of anxiety from him, as the reports he was reading were dealing with his men's lives. As the CO _pro tempore_ of the 1st Battalion, he had expanded his protectiveness to all 1000 of the members of his unit, and he was loathe to send them into combat after combat without so much as a breather.

Still, orders were orders, and he was hardly in a place to tell Major General Johnson to go fuck himself.

"Sir? Colonel Strider wants an update on the status of the rear lines," his assistant—probably one of the _only_ perks of his new job—informed him as he walked into the tent.

Harry, of course, was ready for this, as he continuously compiled the incoming reports into a single, large status report for the Colonel whenever they came in. "First stack on the left edge of the table," he told his assistant monotonously as he kept reading and signing documents.

The assistant paused for a moment. "Your left or mine, sir?"

"Yours."

The man nodded. "Thank you, sir," he stated before picking up said stack and promptly leaving the tent to deliver the status report.

Harry's period of silence, however, did not last, as he heard someone coming up to the tent flap. "Come in," he said lazily, leaning back in his chair and viewing the requisition requests his Majors were sending up.

"Sir!" he heard the acknowledgement and looked up from the requisition request form. He was unsurprised to see the Regimental S2 Officer, Albert Hughes, come in.

"Good morning, Albert," Harry greeted the man. "What have you managed to ferret out of our wonderful superiors?"

There was little sarcasm in Harry's tone. Both men in the tent knew that the more Harry knew about his superiors' intentions, the better he could prepare his men for whatever was to come and so protect them from as much harm as he could.

Albert smiled crookedly. It fit him, in a way. He was not handsome, _per se_, but nor was he ugly. Average and nondescript seemed to be a more fitting way to describe the intelligence officer. He could easily fit in most European societies without ever eliciting any suspicion, and had a sharp mind to back it up. Like the rest of the staff, Hughes was originally part of Major Miles' staff, and Harry had inherited his services, as it were.

"Bad tidings, Major," the man stated simply. "Sounds like Villalmanzo may not hold. There's talk already of setting up a secondary defence post at Saldaña de Burgos," he relayed. "Guess who's getting tipped for the post?"

Harry looked at the S2 Officer impassively. "I guess Colonel Strider failed to get the 75th out of the brass' eye, then," he deduced.

Albert nodded. "General Johnson was adamant that such an 'elite' Regiment—his words, not mine—should be given the task," he informed his temporary superior before shrugging. "My bet is that he hopes you'll take care of the enemy Corps with your freaky magic."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "I'm flattered the General has such a high opinion of me," he stated sardonically. "A Corps is too much for my reserves. Especially in an open field where they can spread out as they wish," he then explained. "But nevermind about that—what can you tell me about this new post of ours?"

"I never said the 75th was definitely going," Albert pointed out, which Harry waved away dismissively.

"We both know it's a matter of time before Johnson gives the go-ahead," he refuted. "So tell me what I need to know to keep my men alive."

Albert smiled crookedly again. "Well, the first thing you should know is that Saldaña de Burgos is a tiny, residential-intensive town."

Harry gave a grimace of distaste. "Perfect. More Ultranationalist fanatics," he muttered.

Albert shrugged. "Hazard of invading a fanatic country, sir," he apologized insincerely. "Anyway, it's nestled right next to the highway to Burgos, which means that it's a sure thing that the enemy will be coming that way. Unfortunately, it doesn't straddle both sides, so you'll need to make some on-site defences and barricades to keep the enemy away."

"Any natural defences we can use to our advantage?"

Albert shook his head. "Sadly not, sir. Flatlands on either side pretty much ensure that if the Corps is _really_ determined to get around you, they will."

Harry sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily. Why on earth were they pushing their own lines so far south, then? "Is there _any_ good news?" he asked.

Albert shrugged. "Depends on what you call 'good' news," he replied flatly. "Word is, the reason the 75th is being tipped for the job also has a lot to do with our reputation among the Spanish army. Turns out, our success record is something of a standing blight on the Spanish military's honour, so word has it that the civvies in power in Madrid have a standing order for the Spanish military to seek us out and defeat us wherever they can."

Harry quickly deduced the implications of that statement. "So the brass wants us as bait," he concluded, narrowing his eyes as Albert nodded with a grimace. "Why? I can't imagine General Johnson coming up with this sort of complex scheme."

"It's not his plan. Turns out, it's General Cameron's idea," Albert relayed as he shifted himself into a more comfortable position in the chair opposite Harry's desk. "Though the details haven't been released yet to the appropriate commanders."

"Sounds like he's playing this one closely to his chest."

Albert nodded. "Indeed. I have a few theories, mind you." Harry nodded and waved him on. "Well, the way I see it, and judging from the lay of the land, Saldaña is pretty much a defensive nightmare, being that it is both small, sparse in potentially defensive structures, and the surrounding geography is an armoured Corps' wet dream."

"A death trap," Harry summed up succinctly, eliciting a smile from Albert.

"Quite so, sir," he agreed. "So why sacrifice a whole elite regiment to the Spanish? I figure that General Cameron is expecting us to fight the good fight at Saldaña, but then pull back to Pedernales, just south of Burgos."

"Why on earth for?" asked Harry, surprised. "That would bring them a stone's throw away from the siege!"

Albert smiled conspiratorially. "Tell me, sir, do _you_ know where the Third Airborne Corps is right now?" he asked slyly.

Harry blinked as he realized that he did not, in fact, have a clue of where the Airborne troops had been deployed to since the initial invasion. Being highly mobile and capable on their own, Harry had imagined that the III Airborne Corps had been behind most of the 2nd Army's success in the North-East. It didn't take him long to realize that they were, once again, working behind the scenes in this little ambush that General Cameron had cooked up. "Where are they?" he asked interestedly, leaning forward over his desk.

Albert put up a finger to his lips, the sly smile still on. "It's technically a secret," he commented. "But word from my colleagues is that they've been deployed to three areas around here: Villagonzalo Pedernales, Pedernales itself, and, the most curious of all emplacements, Modubar de la Emparedada."

Harry stared on blankly at the place names, even going so far as to pull out a map of the region to better understand the ramifications of such positions. It didn't take him long after that to realize what General Cameron was planning. "Christ…Albert, if this works…" he breathed, eyes widening.

Albert smiled and nodded. "We'll have captured an entire Spanish Corps. Now isn't _that_ something to write home about?"

* * *

**Pedernales, Spain, May 14****th****, 2009 (D-Day +97)…**

"Well, I can safely say that if you hadn't told me about this possibility, Albert, I'd have never believed it," Harry commented as he watched the catastrophic defeat of the Spanish V Corps through his binoculars.

Albert smiled crookedly. "I aim to please, sir," was his simple reply.

The scene before them was equal parts ghastly and awe-inspiring. Spanish tanks, and thousands of bodies, were littering the highway leading south, all of them victims of the masterful ambush that General Cameron had set in the town of Pedernales and its surroundings.

As Albert had predicted, the 75th Regiment had been deployed to Saldaña de Burgos the day after he had confided in Harry, and predictably, just as they were digging in, they were met with the retreating elements of the 2nd Division. As the reports had been suggesting all this time, there was indeed a Spanish Corps rolling north, with a substantial armoured component. Fortunately, however, the 2nd Division's 56th and 47th Regiments had been able to bloody the enemy such that their numbers were substantially diminished by the time they would hit Saldaña.

Thus emboldened with that small bit of good news, the 75th Regiment had renewed its efforts to dig themselves in quite earnestly, making sure to make life as difficult as possible for the enemy tanks in particular. Thankfully, the fact that the 75th was both occupying a Spanish town and blocking the middle of an important highway ensured that they would not simply bombard the area into nonexistence, as that would probably be enough to incite anything less than the most ardent supporters of the government to dissent, and would similarly damage the highway itself.

The first attacks occurred two days after they had finished their works—presumably due to the Spanish V Corps having to lick its wounds from the beating the 56th and 47th Regiments had inflicted on them. Thus, when the hammer finally fell on Saldaña, it promptly got bounced back as the well-entrenched Britons gave as much as they got, and then some. Casualties were, admittedly, unavoidable, and sheer weight of numbers did get the V Corps some gradual gains. However, the 75th Regiment had counted on this, and after having drawn in sufficient numbers of them—and showing off their Regimental number—the regiment was ordered to retreat to Pedernales, with the III Corps predictably hot on their tails, hoping to finally eradicate the source of much shame among the Spanish brass.

When the 75th thus wheeled into Pedernales, the Spanish followed suit, expecting to find the British lines still further north—within Burgos' own outlying reaches, in fact. What they did _not_ expect, however, was for remote-detonated charges to go off just as the armoured column rolled into the town, or the sudden appearance of thousands of hidden paratroopers among the buildings at the sides of the highway, effectively cutting off the Spanish Corps into two, as the northern half was immediately set upon by the 'retreating' 75th Regiment.

Of course, once they realized they had walked into an ambush, the V Corps immediately began fighting back, until they realized that another force was rolling in from the west—more paratroopers in armoured personnel carriers. When news came of a _southern_ flanking move, however, the V Corps began to panic, and much of what was left, already battered and broken by the ambush, either surrendered or broke and ran east, only to find themselves in the waiting arms of the 47th and 56th Regiments, who had been reassigned to serve as the eastern flank of the ambush.

The end result was staggering. An entire Spanish Corps either lied dead on the streets of Pedernales, or were now being marched off to the coast by the 75th Regiment as POWs.

Observing the march from atop one of the intact buildings left in Pedernales, Harry couldn't help but be immensely impressed at the ingenuity of the plan. General Cameron had, by manipulating Major General Johnson indirectly, effectively managed to keep the plan a secret long enough that no one had acted in such a way to tip off the Spaniards. Added to that was the incredibly sneaky deployment of the paratroopers, and one was left with an amazing plan.

The best news, however? The 75th was _finally_ getting pulled off the front lines for some much-needed R&R in England. In their stead, two more regiments were being flown into Santander to bolster the 2nd Army, as it now stood as the closest force to Madrid of all four field armies.

Harry dropped his binoculars and smiled at the sight of his men rolling out in the troop trucks, most of them now happily chatting.

They had made it through the worst and survived. Now, it was time for some well-deserved rest.

Or, rather, that _would_ have been the feeling most prevalent, if some shouting hadn't quickly pierced into his psyche at that moment. Now, ordinarily, shouting was about as common as weapons fire in times of war—it was probably even the most effective means of communication on a battlefield—but as the fighting had now effectively ended, and most of the troops involved were getting ready to redeploy back north to Burgos—with only a standing force of paratroopers staying behind to hold Pedernales as a forward outpost—Harry was not expecting hysterical shouts of fear or anger to occur.

Exchanging a worried look with Albert, the two men descended from the rooftop of the building and quickly made their way to an abandoned warehouse in the south-east of the town, where the ambushing paratroopers had been stationed during the wait.

What Harry found there sickened him and damn near got him in such a rage as to summon his fire magic.

A young girl—no more than fifteen by the looks of her, although the grime and blood made it difficult to tell for sure—was being manhandled by four Britons wearing the uniforms of the 47th Regiment, which made sense once one remembered that they were in charge of the eastern flank of the ambush.

"What the _fuck_ is going on here?" demanded Harry angrily, Albert at his side pulling his service pistol from its holster and ready to back up his CO. More to the point, he was already calling for backup on his radio.

One of the four men ganging up on the girl looked back at him and Harry could easily tell the man was drunk out of his mind. "Who the fuck are you?" the man demanded drunkenly, his face set in a scowl at being interrupted.

"'Ey, it's that freak!" one of the other would-be rapists identified Harry. "Y'know, the one who torches people!"

Harry glared at the group, increasing its intensity as he saw the looks of disgust on them. It was not an expression that rapists had a right to have. "Let the girl go, and I _might_ be convinced not to torch _you_," he warned dangerously.

Instantly, he saw two of them reach for their pistols. "We ain't listening to no freak!" one of the two hasty drunks shouted angrily as he reached for his gun. He never had the chance.

With two sharp bangs, both of the mutinous soldiers fell to the ground, nursing bloodied knees as Albert's pinpoint precision blasted apart their left kneecaps. Harry, meanwhile, had his right hand extended and his fingers ready to snap.

"Anyone else want to test us?" he asked furiously.

The two remaining unwounded soldiers quickly let go of the girl and raised their hands as Albert's pistol trailed their every move and Harry's fingers seemed about ready to snap at any second. The wounding of their two comrades had effectively snapped them out of their drunken stupor, and they were just realizing how much trouble they were in.

It didn't take long for the Military Police to arrive shortly after Albert wounded the two mutineers. With equal expressions of disgust, they quickly rounded up the soldiers and escorted them back to the centre of the city—with the two wounded soldiers getting taken their by medical litter. Harry, for his part, had given his official statement on the matter and had offered to take the girl back to the camp himself, seeing as she was hysterically screaming at the Military Police when they tried to near her. Only Harry and Albert seemed to be able to get close to her without eliciting some sort of hysterical response, so Harry had taken responsibility, much to the MPs' frustration.

The debrief at the camp did not take long—insofar as the girl was concerned. Colonel Strider, of course, had been out-of-his-mind furious with his colleague and had demanded the harshest possible punishment for the four would-be rapists and mutineers. When Albert had relayed said exchange back to Harry, he hadn't been able to keep a smile off his face.

The girl, for her part, had been given Harry's room to rest, while he settled for his desk chair and a footstool. Additionally, he sent a missive to the senior-most Captain in the Battalion, Captain Shepherd, to lead the battalion and the POWs back to Santander as planned while he stayed behind to take care of the legal issues of what he'd interrupted. Predictably, word spread throughout the battalion and Harry came out as even more of a hero than he'd already been thanks to his constant watch over the men. Harry suspected that Albert had a hand in playing up his role, even though it had been Albert himself who had shot two of the perpetrators.

Overall? It had been a crazy day.

* * *

**Burgos, Spain, May 16th, 2009 (D-Day +98)...**

"How's the girl doing?"

Harry looked up from his paperwork and cursed to himself as the sunlight got directly in his eye. Raising a hand to block off the offending light, it took a moment to realize that he was being addressed by Strider, who looked mildly amused at his subordinate's antics.

Getting to his feet quickly, Harry saluted his superior officer, accidentally causing his paperwork to fall to the ground in a heap, causing him to close his eyes briefly to try and settle the rising feelings of frustration he was getting. Strider, for his part, merely saluted back and allowed his subordinate to recover the fallen papers before trying his question again.

"How's your newest charge doing?"

Harry allowed a glance at his superior officer before going back to his task. "Still not sleeping right," he admitted. "Keeps waking up in the middle of the night screaming."

Strider nodded. "I'd heard that," he acknowledged. "But I thought she'd stopped doing that? At the very least, I haven't received anymore complaints."

"Silencing barrier," Harry explained shortly before putting the stack of papers on his chair, followed by a paperweight to prevent his work from being blown away by a gust of wind.

"Ah," Strider said with realization before glancing at the tent flap. "She's sleeping right now, then?" he asked, knowing it was probably the only reason Harry would be out in the sun right now. Despite offers to give the girl a separate tent, she was completely out-of-her-mind traumatized by the failed rape attempt, and according to the incident report, completely flipped out if she was approached by a man other than Hughes or the mage standing before him.

Harry confirmed Strider's guess with a short nod, followed by a tired yawn. "Finally tired herself out from crying about two hours ago, sir," he reported, surprising his superior. After all, it was bloody three in the afternoon!

Strider eyed the younger man for a moment before coming to a quick realization. "Have you slept at all?" he asked, a little flabbergasted.

Harry waved away his superior's concerns. "Got a couple of hours in last night, sir, before the crying and screaming started," he said. "I'm fine," he added unnecessarily, and not convincing Strider in the least.

The two men were silent for a moment-Strider's attention still on the tent flap, and Harry's on trying to stay awake. After all, he still had to finish the day's requisition forms, as well as clearing the R&R red tape.

"Why not just send her to a military psychiatrist?" Strider finally asked. "I know the girl doesn't appreciate male company, but we _do_ have some women on staff," he pointed out.

Harry appreciated the offer-he really did. It wasn't usual for a high-ranking officer of the armed forces to take this much of an interest in a comparatively trivial case such as this-even if it _had_ occurred due to a lack of army discipline among some of the more morally corrupt members of the same. Usually, people like Josefina were just statistics on some paper, or the object of a dry, emotionless report that inevitably got filed in some dusty cabinet. That Strider cared enough to come and see for himself spoke well of the man's character.

Character that Harry truly admired. "Thank you, sir, but I don't think she's still well enough to handle reliving that event," he stated appreciatively as he glanced back at his tent. "When she is, you have my word I'll be arranging for her to meet with a psychiatrist."

Strider nodded at the answer, admittedly half-expecting it. As much as the man before him had gathered a horrifying reputation for mass destruction, he knew better than to judge his personality based on his deeds-particularly due to his job as a soldier. He'd read and redacted enough battlefield and post-battle reports, and seen the man in action, to know that deep down, the mage cared for his men, and took their wellbeing to heart. No heartless creature would have ever taken a rape victim into his care, after all.

"You're a good man, White," he praised. "I'm sure Miles would've been glad to see you inherit his post," he added.

That meant quite a bit to Harry, and it showed in the way he puffed his chest and saluted in thanks. "Thank you, sir," he said with a sincere smile.

* * *

**Burgos, Spain, June 18****th****, 2009 (D-Day +132)…**

There were few things in Harry's life that he could truly admit to hating.

Telling Elicia, William, and John that he wouldn't be able to visit because his leave pass was cancelled was one of them.

The cancellation, thankfully, had not been extended to his men, and he happily sent them off to the British Isles for some R&R away from the destruction of the battlefield, lest they snap from the horrors they had witnessed. Meanwhile, however, he was stuck back in Spain babysitting a traumatized teenager in the middle of a warzone.

Colonel Strider had not stopped looking at him with some measure of pity before the man left for England as well.

Bereft of Regiment and Battalion, Harry was now essentially a one-man artillery squadron, and Major-General Johnson knew it. Lacking a proper military unit to get assigned to—as he was _not_ being transferred officially—Johnson took it upon himself to keep Harry occupied…by means of employing his magic against the enemy.

The problem was that this was magic being unleashed on an extremely stubborn and bullish opponent, and so Harry was often called in to level a square or two in order to get the enemy running. So often, in fact, that he was starting to get nightmares from the devastation he was incurring on the enemy—not that he would _ever_ admit it.

The issue was, however, that it was quickly coming to the point where it was _impossible_ to hide from Josefina. More than once, she would wake up from her sleep as he jolted awake with a muffled cry, his face heavy with sweat and his eyes appearing more haunted with every passing day. Heavy bags were forming underneath his eyes, and she had noticed that his hands would shake whenever the topic of his magic would come up.

The problem was that Harry had always been a calculating and pragmatic person…and yet still hopelessly naïve, he realized. When he had offered the brass full use of his magic, he had expected them to use him as they would a howitzer—carefully, with precision and tact. Instead, they were using him as a sort of carpet bombing instrument. Everywhere he went, he was asked not to simply set fire to emplacements, but to _level_ them.

The worst part was the clean-up work afterwards. As the Spanish North Eastern Army's lines contracted further into the city, Harry was forced to see the effects of his handiwork just by passing back the ruins. On more than one occasion, he had seen charred arms sticking out from the rubble, and the one time he had actually tried to touch one, it promptly disintegrated into ash.

It didn't help that Major General Johnson kept praising him for his work, either, or reminding him that every such attack saved _thousands_ of British lives. It was true, he realized, but it also didn't seem to hold as much weight as it used to, especially whenever the images of the burnt corpses flashed in his mind.

And Josefina…how could he take care of a traumatized girl when he was rapidly reaching that same level of trauma? Even worse was the fact that the girl was clearly interested in him in a fashion that was more than appropriate between guardian and care, which Harry refused to entertain out of loyalty to both Elicia and his own ambitions. If he could not have Elicia by his side, then he would only settle for those women who could further his ambitions—no one else.

A noise coming from his bed snapped Harry back to reality.

'_Speaking of which…_' he thought as he watched the teen discreetly roll onto her side and peek at him. She had done this several times before—always believing that he didn't notice. She had, unfortunately, underestimated just how noisy the cot was when one moved on it. It also helped that his nerves were on edge from the recent mission to level yet another city block in Burgos.

It took a few seconds of 'discreet' peeking before Harry decided to put an end to it. "Bad dreams?" he asked kindly, although there was a subtle note of impatience in his tone.

He remained impassive as he heard the girl squeak at the sudden question, having believed that her guardian had been asleep in his chair. "N-No, sir," she quickly replied, her words thickly accented. "T-trouble sleeping."

Harry nodded—it was as plausible an explanation as any, considering the continuous sound of cannon fire and explosions that had fast become a simple addition to the local environment. Considering the fact that she had a history of staying up to peek at him, however, he wasn't about to buy it that simply.

"Go to sleep, Josefina," he told her firmly. "Young girls like you need their rest."

"I-I'm trying…" she mumbled almost inaudibly. "B-But the cannons…"

Harry sighed. He really didn't want to put up a silencing ward, considering that sound was one of the best ways of knowing how things were on a battlefield. "You'll learn to ignore them, I promise," he reassured her. "I have. For the most part, anyway."

"C-Could you maybe…" she asked in a soft voice, much like a child. "…tell me a story?"

Harry blinked. Surely he hadn't heard right. "A story?" he parroted.

Josefina nodded shyly. "Mama and Papa would tell me stories when I was younger," she told him. "Especially whenever I had a bad dream…they would always come to tell me a story…"

Harry mentally sighed. What was he, her father? Now _there_ was an odd idea. Harry could barely conceive of himself as a normal person, much less a father. To his own mind, it was not something that he could look forward to—even if he did manage to succeed in his dreams. He may have children, true, but he would never really be their father, now would he? He would be the supreme leader. The metaphorical father of _all_ his subjects.

Besides, a man whose hands were as dirtied by blood and ash as his own had no right to call any child his own, right? How could he ever possibly allow an innocent child to become tainted with his bloodstained hands? Being a father was like being with Elicia…a stupid, wonderful dream—it would always eventually give way to reality.

Still…maybe he could play the part, just this once? Dream a little, so to speak?

That thought was immediately succeeded by panic. What story would he tell? He couldn't really remember of any his mum used to tell him when he was younger. At school, it was probably one of the last things he thought about! What possible story would be good enough to get her to relax…?

Harry's eyes widened with sudden realization, silently thanking God for hindsight. Shifting himself so he would be more comfortable, he smiled at Josefina in the dark and nodded. "Alright then. _One_ story," he told her firmly, and was slightly tickled by the enthusiastic nod from the teenage girl.

Taking a deep breath, he focused his mind on his childhood memories and smiled up at the tent ceiling. "Once upon a time, there was a happy couple living in a peaceful land…their names were James and Lily, and they were expecting their first son, whom they decided to call…Harry…."

* * *

**Burgos, Spain, June 24****th****, 2009 (D-Day +138)…**

Harry looked up from his paperwork with a stunned look.

"You want me to _what_?" he asked incredulously as he stared at Josefina, who was sitting rather primly on the other side of his desk.

"I want you to teach me how to fight," she repeated, her words still heavily accented due to English being her second language.

Harry laid down his pen and rubbed his forehead with his now free hand. "Josefina, why on earth would you want to learn how to fight?" he asked. "I'm here to protect you, aren't I? After the war's over, you won't need to fight anymore."

The teenaged Spanish girl was not to be deterred however. "My parents are d-dead," she said firmly, stuttering only at the last word slightly—a marked improvement over the first time he'd goaded the location of her parents out of her. "I have no uncles or aunts that I know of…and I was seconds away from becoming a rape victim. I _want_ to learn how to fight."

Harry gazed at her silently for a moment before nodding, conceding to her argument. "I'll see if I can get one of the sergeants to include you in their training sess—"

He was quickly interrupted by the girl's fierce headshake. "No! I want _you_ to teach me!" she clarified.

Harry blinked. "Me? Josefina, I'm not even the best fighter there is in this army!" he protested.

Very deliberately, she raised her hand and snapped her fingers. Nothing happened—of course, but it was a very clear message she was sending her guardian. "Teach me how to _fight_…please…" she repeated, this time a lot softer and her head bowed.

Even as he finally understood what she wanted, Harry still shook his head. "I'm sorry, Josefina…you…don't have that gift," he told her sincerely. "Not everyone does."

Josefina seemed to think he was deliberately trying to direct her away from using such powers, however. "I don't believe you!" she said hotly.

Harry sighed. "Josefina…this is something maybe one in a _million_ can use," he guessed wildly, not knowing the exact figure. "If it wasn't, don't you think the generals would have me training everyone in this camp to use it? Don't you think they'd leave me alone and send others to do their dirty work?"

Josefina blanched at his words, and Harry figured he'd hit something tender. He narrowed his eyes at her. "Josefina…why _do_ you want to learn magic?" he asked with some suspicion.

The poor raven-haired girl was quiet for a moment, biting her lower lip nervously, before breaking down before him. "I want to help!" she all but yelled at him, causing him to have to wave away the two guards outside who had been moving in to see what the disturbance was. "I…want to help…" she repeated softly, her hands tightened into fists on her lap and her head bowed.

"Help with what, Josefina?" he asked gently, actually quite curious.

"You," she replied just as simply. "I want to help _you_."

"Me?" he asked, somewhat surprised.

She quickly nodded her head. "At that time…you saved me," she reminisced, and he didn't need any sort of clue to guess what she was talking about. "Now…all I can do in return is wait here every day…taking your bed from you…watching you come back with ghosts in your eyes…I want to help….you…"

Harry felt truly touched by the girl's words. With Elicia, it had always been an unspoken understanding that they would support each other in every decision the other made, and with John, it was the agreement that came with being best friends. William, for his part, had always intimated, though never outright said, that as his brother, he would always be behind him, no matter their past, present, or future disagreements. Josefina, however, was the first person to have actually _said_ the words.

That didn't mean, however, that he was about to let someone else get dragged into a hellish life because of him.

"Josefina…" he spoke softly. "…I'm touched you feel that way, I really am. But…this isn't a life I would wish on you."

Josefina shook her head violently. "I can help!" she protested. "I can! Just…give me a chance!"

Harry shook his head. "I'm sorry, Josefina. I can't, in good conscience, allow you to get dragged into such a hellish life on my behalf. That's my final word on that."

Josefina looked up at him and glared viciously, obviously refusing to accept his ultimatum. Silently, she stormed out of the tent, though Harry wasn't worried that she would wander into the battlefield—she knew better. At best, she'd hang out with some of the soldiers, and come back later. Sighing, he lowered his head and got back to work.

Josefina, for her part, was fuming from her guardian's refusal to let her help—though, academically, she knew why. Compared to him, she was nothing but a naïve little girl, frail and helpless. Where he could level entire blocks and bounce back bullets, she could barely hold up one of the more substantial stacks of paperwork that adorned his desk. If he brought her alongside him, she would be nothing more than a liability.

"_Carajo!_" she swore vehemently, kicking away a discarded can that must've rolled out from the mess tents. She was bitterly frustrated, and had no outlet for it. No sergeant within the Army would train her for fear of her guardian's retaliation even if she asked herself.

She was thankful, to a certain extent, that he wanted to keep her out of harm's way, but she was equally lucid enough to realize that her chances at a "normal" life had died away when her parents had and she'd been nearly raped. Even if she spent the rest of her life in a supposedly "normal" household and grew up to be a "normal" person, the memories of the war would make her anything but normal. Being an orphan also meant that she would likely have to endure hardships no one else would.

More importantly, why was he allowing others to help him, but not her? Did that woman he calls Elicia have something she didn't, besides a guaranteed fuck every time they met? Did his brother William possess some sort of supernatural talent that made him invaluable to her guardian? What about that Lyles fellow—the one who'd been his best friend from childhood? She had never heard her guardian describe him as anything more than an average guy, yet she got the feeling that even he was deeper in her guardian's confidences than she was.

So what did she not have that all these people did? What aspect of them made them necessary to her guardian, and how could she obtain it, and in doing so make him realize her worth?

"Oi!"

She snapped her head up to see the face of a slightly irritated muscular man who was staring down at her as though she'd been a naughty child. Instinctively cringing at the expression, she took a step back as her eyes swept across the man's muscular form.

What instantly caught her attention—besides the incredibly old-fashioned Burnside-style moustache—was the winged sword emblem of the Special Air Service on the man's left shoulder and on the red beret he wore. The next thing that caught her attention, however, was the discarded can she'd kicked at his feet.

Swallowing nervously, she slowly looked back up and saw him nod at her unspoken realization that she'd kicked the can at him without knowing so.

"Didn't anyone tell you kicking cans at people was impolite?" he asked roughly as he eyed the girl from head to toe, as one would a piece of unsatisfactory cattle. "For that matter, who are you, and what are you doing in a military camp, lass?"

She stayed silent as she cringed in visible fear of the man—who clearly looked like he could break her in two with his bare hands. To her relief—and almost immediate horror—several men seemed to arrive behind the SAS serviceman, all of them wearing the same emblems on their berets, though bereft of their combat jackets in favour of the olive muscle shirts.

"What's going on, sir?" one of them asked.

The man looked to his side and kept an even stare. "Got hit in the shin by this lass' errant can, is what happened," he replied.

She heard one of the men laugh. She'd seem him stare at her for a moment before returning his attention to his superior. "Oh, come on, Captain—I'm sure she didn't mean anything by it!" he assuaged his boss before looking at Josefina with kind eyes. "Right, lass?"

The Captain harrumphed at the interruption but seemed to let go of his irritation as he saw the girl still cringing from him. "Fine," he conceded, deflating as he uncrossed his arms and patted Josefina—who had frozen in fear—on the head once. "Sorry I gave you a scare there, luv," he apologized, though there remained some confusion in his eyes. "But seriously, though…who are you, and what _are_ you doing here? This isn't a place for civvies!"

Slowly, Josefina managed to calm down, realizing that these men would not harm her. Though she opened her mouth several times to reply, she felt no words leave her mouth, and it took her four tries before she could enunciate her name. "J-Josefina, sir…" she introduced herself meekly. "I-I'm s-staying w-with M-Major W-White."

She heard one of the men snap their fingers in realization. "Oi, I know him!"

She felt the Captain remove his hand from her head and looked over at the talking soldier. "Oh? Do tell, Soap."

The man made a grimace at the nickname. "He was in a fencing tourney a few years back," he recalled. "Wiped the floor with the regional champion. Quite the fight, too—he was on the ropes for a while before his opponent got all big-headed and gave him an opening," he finished with a smile before looking at Josefina. "If that guy's your guardian, I'd say you're in safe hands, lass."

"Wasn't he involved in some sort of incident a few weeks ago?" asked another. "I seem to recall some of the Army chaps gossiping about a Captain and a Major having a tuffle with four drunken soldiers."

The Captain snorted in disdain as he crossed his arms over his chest again. "Bah. Army. No discipline," he judged roughly. "Give 'em a week through SAS training, and I'll bet you all of them break."

Josefina's ears perked up at this, though at the time, she had no idea why. "Y-You're s-stronger t-than A-Army s-soldiers?" she asked, her nervous stutter still quite heavy.

All of the group of SAS servicemen seemed to stare at her for what seemed to be an eternity before they all—even the Captain—burst out laughing. It wasn't a mocking laugh, but rather one you would typically hear at the end of a good joke.

"Damned right we are!" the Captain exclaimed proudly. "Second to none! That's the SAS way!"

A bright—or maybe not so bright, considering one's point of view—idea popped into her head at that point. "C-Could you make _me_ stronger?" she asked, surprised at her own bravery for voicing the question.

Not as surprised as the SAS servicemen, however, who were staring at her as though she'd called herself the Queen and ordered them to make her pie. It was the Captain who replied to her, eventually.

"No."

He'd said it flatly, without any sort of emotion. His piercing stare looking right through her, she was rooted to the spot as he gave his final dictum.

"Please!" she tried again, taking a brave step forward. Other than a raised eyebrow, the Captain stared at her impassively. After a moment of silence, he turned his back on her and began to walk away.

"Let's go, lads," he ordered roughly. The other servicemen looked at Josefina with some measure of pity and disbelief before similarly turning their backs on her and walking away with their Captain.

They'd gotten a few steps away from her when the Captain turned his head slightly and addressed Josefina once more.

"Don't underestimate the SAS, lass," he told her roughly, his eyes hidden by the beret's shadow. "No one but the most tenacious, most daring people alive may call themselves one of us. We don't pick up strays."

With that final statement said, the Captain led his men away, leaving behind a dismayed young girl.

* * *

**Burgos, Spain, July 14****th****, 2009 (D-Day +158)…**

The next two weeks had been full of surprises for Harry.

First of all, Josefina had actually asked him to train her to become a fighter so she could help him in his goals—which he'd of course rejected. Then, after a brief storming out of his tent, he'd watched her return, practically broken-spirited, and immediately asked her what had happened. When she told him she was fine, he'd been a bit dubious, but as she didn't seem to reek of sex or anything dodgy, he was somewhat mollified and decided to cease his questioning.

Then, after about four days of sulking, the girl had suddenly sat up in her bunk with this look of utter realization, and immediately gotten changed before speeding out of the tent, much to his surprise. Usually, it took his presence to get her outside, though as of recent, it was mostly out of his own concern for her safety than her own trauma. This time, however, she'd been insistent that he let her take a "stroll" through the camp unsupervised, reminding him that between his paperwork and the fact that she knew many of the soldiers in the immediate vicinity from previous walks, she would be fine and he should get back to work. What surprised him most, however, was the fact that she wouldn't return until much later in the afternoon, always with a determined look, and then proceed to do the same thing the very next day. He was tempted to have her followed, but knew that would shatter any trust she held for him, so he held back.

However, this routine of hers had been going on for the past week, and each time she came back with the same look, causing him no slight amount of nervousness. Would the Military Police be mad at him for letting her wander that way? It was surprising that they hadn't already brought it to his attention to begin with, considering the fact that she was a foreign national—even though she _had_ been the victim of trauma.

Of course, he had little time—or energy—to pursue that line of investigation. Burgos was on the verge of falling to the 2nd Army, and additional forces from Britain had ensured that the North-Eastern provinces of Spain were firmly now under British control. That meant that Harry was being called in even more frequently to take care of the remaining pockets of resistance within Burgos, to ensure _complete_ domination of the city. Already, civilians that had stayed behind to help the Spanish Eastern Army were beginning to surrender in droves, hoping to be spared the fiery death that seemed to accompany the British offensives around the city. Much of the city itself had been destroyed as well, and no one was under any illusions regarding the horrific cost of reconstruction—nevermind the death tolls.

With Burgos, however, the British Armed Forces had decisively proven to the Spanish government the breadth of their determination. Though, by that same token, so had the Spanish forces with their stubborn defence of the ruined city. From what Harry had heard, both sides had begun (somewhat pre-emptively, in his opinion) implementing an award to be given to those who specifically participated at the Siege of Burgos, to commemorate the sheer difficulty of the battle. Harry imagined that most of the hype being formed about the battle was probably being used in propaganda—as all major battles tended to be. What those pictures and sound bytes could never show, however, was the constant smell of burning flesh and plastic that seemed to follow him wherever he went and no matter how much he washed. They could never show the horror of finding the charred remains of his victims, or the devastation being felt by the civilians they captured and held nearby as they watched their homes burn.

But what was most surprising about the week was the news that within a few days, his Regiment would be returning, and Michael White, the MP for Liverpool—also known as Sirius Black—would be accompanying them for a tour of the front lines, apparently also bearing some important news for the troops. He hadn't expect that—well, he _had_ expected his regiment to return to the front lines someday, as all regiments were had to, but he _hadn't_ expected Sirius, of all people, to come along for the ride. His job was, unlike Harry's, to stay in the background, working the Parliament to a place where he could then move with as little hindrance as possible in the future. What on _earth_ was he doing, coming to such a high-profile and dangerous place?

Harry couldn't wait till he saw his dear godfather. He'd then be able to give him a piece of his mind.

* * *

**Burgos, Spain, July 31****st****, 2009 (D-Day +177)…**

"You know, most people welcome their relatives with open arms and a smile," Sirius observed idly as he watched his godson pace in his tent, the guards long dismissed on the basis of this being a private family reunion.

"_Most_ people also don't hide their identities and manipulate the highest legislative body of their country for the sake of their ambitions," Harry snapped back. "What on _earth_ possessed you to come here? Besides that fancy speech about the budget increase—which, mind you, any bloody _clerk_ could have announced!"

Sirius raised an amused eyebrow. "What, can't I come see my dear _nephew_?" he stressed the word, reminding his godson of their assumed identities. "After all, I did get the budget for this little war increased by playing up the sentimental card," he reminded his godson calmly, legs crossed and hands steepled before him.

"And I'm appreciative of that," Harry replied evenly. "But we both know that _your_ job is to stay in Britain and fix things for us to move more easily, not strut into an active _battlefield_."

Sirius scoffed. "Please," he said dismissively. "What do you take me for? I know what I'm supposed to do. James and Lily made _that_ quite clear, and trust me, I'm loving every minute of it," he told his godson. "But fine, you want to know why I'm here? I have news from that girl, Elicia, as well as some interesting information from my contacts in the Magical World."

Harry raised an eyebrow and finally sat down. "Oh? Do tell," he prompted.

"Which one first? Your sweetheart or the information?" asked Sirius mischievously.

Harry glared for a moment but then sighed. "Ellie."

Sirius barked out a laugh before settling for a smirk. "Turns out your little secret girlfriend's experiments are beginning to take form," he informed his godson. "She's reported that the fuel crystals seem to have much greater potential than just Floo Powder, though she's still working on how much exactly."

"And the deposits?" asked Harry. "We need her well supplied, after all."

"Already taken care of," Sirius assured him. "I had my account manager at Gringotts set up a Floo Powder processing company and bought out at least half a dozen deposits. Since most mages aren't aware of how much fuel crystals are needed for making Floo Powder, they won't miss a couple missing from the stack now and then."

"Speaking of Gringotts…"

Sirius nodded. "That's part of what I wanted to tell you," he pre-empted Harry. "The negotiations are still ongoing—nothing's certain yet, but the fact that they're willing to set up the Floo Powder processing company tells me that they're giving it a _lot_ of thought," he relayed. "I wouldn't worry too much, however. I've made them an offer they couldn't refuse."

"_Any_ offer can be refused, Uncle," Harry reminded Sirius.

Sirius shook his head. "Not the one I made," he riposted. "Tell me, Harry, what do you know of the financial comings and goings of the Ministry of Magic?" he asked.

"Absolutely nothing." Harry replied bluntly.

Sirius smiled conspiratorially. "Then you haven't heard that they're up to their eyeballs in debt, eh?" he informed his now surprised godson. He relished the look, as he was often the one giving said look whenever his godson and he spoke. "It's true. The Ministry's financial soundness has been rocky, for at least half a year now. They've been borrowing from Gringotts like it's going out of style to fund the Ministry's new 'War on Dark Magic.'" he saw Harry nod in understanding. "Apparently, this has the Goblins throwing a fit, as the Ministry keeps taking and taking, without paying back much of the accrued interest. That means they're forced to raise the interest rates to make up the difference through other debts, but at the same time it ensures no one else wants to borrow money, because paying it back would be a nightmare in and of itself."

Harry realized where Sirius was going now. "So what do they want, exactly?" he asked, wanting to make sure.

"They want their losses recouped," Sirius explained. "Which is, for us at least, an easier task, given that gold outside the Wizarding world is much cheaper than at the rate it's being sold at among mages."

"And that's it?" asked Harry dubiously. Goblins, though notoriously greedy creatures, were also quite clever, and getting bought off so easily didn't sit right with his impression of them.

Sirius smiled. "Of course not. The promise of payment got me in through the door. What _really_ sold them was the promise of becoming the Central Bank," he intimated. "By doing so, they would not only recoup their financial losses from the Ministry, but also come out as the primary financial institution of your government. Good business all around," he summed up.

Harry blanched. "_Sirius!_" he exclaimed in horror. "We can't promise them that! There's already a Central Bank of England, or have you forgotten?" he reminded his godfather. "How would we even _begin_ to explain to the financial authorities that they're being replaced by non-humans?" he asked, alternating between panic and worry. "We've already determined that there could be a massive backlash towards the idea of _humans_ with magical powers, _nevermind _another _species_."

Sirius' smile widened. "Harry, my boy…you underestimate the powers of propaganda and bribery."

Harry looked dubious. "Sirius, this is a huge risk you're forcing us to take," he warned. "I'll trust you, for now, simply because you seem to know what you're doing, and I frankly have no clue about any of this economics talk." he told the older man before switching mental gears and addressing another topic of importance to his mind. "What about the mages in general? What news from them?" he then asked.

Sirius nodded. "A little more on that," he replied simply. "Word is, that chap Scrimgeour…"

"The Head Auror?" asked Harry for clarification.

Sirius nodded. "The very same. Anyway, turns out he's been elected the new Minister of Magic," he relayed.

"I wasn't aware there had been elections recently. Did Bones resign?"

Sirius took a small sip from his tea cup before shaking his head. "More like died, unfortunately," he informed his godson. "Assassinated in Diagon Alley, in broad daylight by a couple of fanatic Voldemort sympathizers."

Harry tsk-tsked at the information. "Pity that. She sounded like a reasonable person," he lamented. "Might have made the imposition of Crown authority all the more smooth with her still in power."

Sirius nodded in agreement. "We don't always get what we want, unfortunately," he reminded his godson.

"What about this Scrimgeour…what's he like? Can we use him?" Harry asked pointedly.

Sirius shrugged. "It depends, truth be told," he admitted. "He's not evil—_that's_ for sure. He'd probably kill himself before working for people like Voldemort. The problem is, he also comes across as a supremacist…albeit a tacit one, at worst."

Harry scowled. "Please tell me he's not of the Dumbledorean persuasion," he pleaded with his godfather.

Sirius shook his head. "Word on the street is that Scrimgeour and Dumbledore don't quite enjoy each other's company," he confided. "Scrimgeour apparently thinks Dumbledore's too soft with his 'second chances' policies, and Dumbledore thinks Scrimgeour is too authoritarian."

"So naturally, the Ministry of Magic is once again at a political impasse in the Wizengamot while the bigots run rampantly free," Harry concluded blithely. "Fantastic. Utterly wonderful," he added sarcastically.

Sirius shrugged again before sipping his tea. "To be fair, it does allow us to move more easily," he pointed out. "If they were on their game, we would be facing an entirely new magnitude of difficulty in trying to smuggle as many discontent mages as we can to the continent. It also helps that half the Auror department is rooting for one side, while the other roots for the other."

Harry chuckled, his previous dark thoughts banished away. "Never thought I'd be cheering for the incompetence of government," he said with a smirk. "But I'll concede that point. Speaking of the continental camps, how are they coming?"

"We haven't been found out, if that's what you're asking," Sirius replied wryly. "It's quite amazing how much a few gold coins in one's pockets will deter a government official from pursuing a particular line of investigation."

Harry nodded. "And the mages themselves?" he pressed.

Sirius waved a hand airily. "They're certainly not on your level, but they're improving," he evaluated. "At the very least, the first batch of them should be ready in a few months. Then we can hand them over to the military for their little Military Mage project."

Harry nodded, satisfied with his godfather's answers. While he had been having second thoughts about sending other people into situations like his, where they would essentially become human weapons for their government, he also knew that this was a necessary sacrifice. If they never got to see the horrors of a battlefield, there was no telling how they would react when—_if_—war ever broke out on British soil. They had to be ready to face the consequences of their actions against their fellow man and deal with it before they were going to be useful to him and his family's plans.

Of course, not _one_ of them were forcefully made to go through with this. He was pragmatic and in certain aspects, ruthless, but he was not a complete sociopathic control freak. The mages in those isolated training camps were there by choice, and would remain by choice. If, at any point, they wanted out, there was a standing guarantee of their freedom, provided they accepted an Unbreakable Vow never to discuss what they had gone through, heard, or seen at the camps.

He was not about to become the very people he had been plotting against from his childhood. He would not force people onto paths they did not want. His followers would become so out of loyalty, or not at all.

* * *

**Near Palencia, Spain, August 20****th****, 2009 (D-Day +197)…**

Harry was quiet as he sat in the command jeep, the vehicle's engine silently humming as it sped down the A-62 highway towards Valladolid. After the fall of Burgos a week ago, the 75th Regiment had been almost instantly assigned to assist the 1st Army at Valladolid, which was apparently giving the British forces _much_ more trouble than Burgos had—which was saying something. Normally, they would have already been there to help, but a few logistical issues had delayed their departure—even if it _was_ just an hour and a half car ride.

Harry shivered as the open-aired jeep raced down the freeway, the rest of the regimental convoy behind them in troop transports. He didn't know why, but he had a horrible feeling about this upcoming mission, even though there was nothing wrong with the planning, on paper. Beside him, Josefina glanced at him curiously as he shivered once again.

"Harry, are you alr—" she never got a chance to finish, as an explosion tore up the road in front of the jeep, forcing the driver to hastily turn away too sharply, and thus resulting in the vehicle flipping over as its tires lost their grip on the concrete ground. Harry's vision went black.

When he finally woke up, the first thing he noticed was the sound of enduring gunfire, with the occasional explosion clueing him in to the fact that there was a battle going on. He then noticed the feeling of scorching heat nearby, and idly wondered whether he had cast a fire spell unconsciously. He quickly shot down that idea as he slowly managed to look backwards and saw the overturned and flaming jeep he last remembered being in.

His thoughts were still quite jumbled at this point. What had happened? Why was there gunfire occurring in an area that should be completely under British control? Hadn't they deviated from the much straighter southern route just _because_ it would be safer?

He suddenly felt something scratch at his face and flinched, cursing under his breath at the pain. Touching the wound on his left cheek, he was mildly concerned to see that his hand was now covered in blood, but quickly dashed those fears when he saw the small particles of broken concrete latched onto his hand. A ricochet. That probably meant the wound was just superficial.

Closing his eyes—no reason to give the enemy any reason to target him, if they had any snipers within range—he slowly had each of his limbs twitch ever so slightly and assessed that he was still whole. His legs hurt like _hell_, however, and he wouldn't be surprised if, upon closer inspection, they were found to be heavily lacerated from the car flip. Similarly, he felt his torso explode with pain every time he tried to move. Opening his eyes again, he stared up at the sky and glowered. It was just his luck that they would fall into an enemy ambush.

Lowering his eyes, however, he froze at the sight of a piece of steel sticking out of his abdomen. Why hadn't he noticed it before? Had he really been _that_ out of it? Upon deeper reflection, he realized this was the reason his torso was in constant agony, but knew better than to remove it outright without immediate medical attention on hand. Doing so would likely make him bleed out, and he really was in no rush to die. He had Ellie to go back to, and William, Isabella, John, his mum, his dad, Sirius…Josefina.

Harry froze again, his mind finally back in full gear as the sounds of battle became ever so clearer. Where was his charge? She had been with him in the jeep when it had flipped, so rationally she had to be nearby, right?

Still, the jagged piece of metal sticking out of his stomach was a bit of a dampener for his ambitions to stand up and look for his wayward charge. Getting up would probably only exacerbate the wound, and quite probably accelerate his demise. Doing nothing, on the other hand, was just unacceptable, even though the men in the regiment would have probably understood if he just lied there and waited for help. Taking it out, on the other hand, would probably be met with widespread derision for having done such a stupid fucking thing.

Harry sighed as his thoughts raced to achieve some sort of compromise between the two extremes of immediate death and passive waiting. An almost casual glance at the burning wreckage of his former jeep gave him an idea that, although remarkably stupid, would also serve his purposes. Being that he was in a bit of a hurry, in the middle of an ongoing battlefield, and _unbelievably pissed off_ at the situation, Harry decided to risk it and put his hands around the metal shard, grasping it tightly between both hands.

Then, with a grunt, he began to pull, and almost felt his consciousness slip away as the excruciating pain hit his nervous system. What the hell had he been thinking? This was fucking _painful_! Thankfully, his will was made of sterner stuff, and he managed to stay conscious as he pulled at the shard with all his might, practically feeling the jagged edges do a number on his insides and seeing the occasional spurt of blood at the wound as he pulled up.

"Come on!" he hissed angrily at himself. "Come up, you stupid little fuck!"

Harry now knew that the action movies where the actors did this sort of crap casually were full of it. It was a goddamned miracle by itself that he hadn't passed out yet form carving up his internal organs with this supremely idiotic move of his! Anger flooded his system as he imagined that his Spanish opponents had probably thought him dead with their little explosion. He felt his arm muscles tense up painfully as he kept at it, his consciousness fighting a desperate battle for survival.

"Think this'll take me down, Spanish _fucks_?" he roared defiantly, his hands so tightly wrapped against the jagged metal that they, too, were slowly being impaled. "I'll send you all to _HELL!_"

With a final grunt, he felt the jagged metal finally come loose from his wound and fly away as his hands lost their grip in a sudden display of physical weakness and fell to his sides.

"Christ…that fucking _hurt_," he breathed heavily, still painfully aware that his torso was quickly becoming a vampire's wet dream as the now empty wound began to flood with his blood. "Well…in for a penny, in for a pound…or whatever," he grunted as he raised his right hand and spread it out above his head, blocking the sun's rays from hitting his face.

Closing his eyes, he channelled as much magic as he thought was wise for this next particular move and let it move towards his right hand, after which he lowered it until he heard a nasty, wet noise that, coupled with the sudden wetness of his hand, it had reached the flooded wound. Then, with only a fraction of a second of hesitation, he performed his next monumentally stupid action of the day.

"_Ardere_," he whispered, and howled in pain as his hand suddenly lit itself on fire and began immediately cauterizing the open wound. It took every ounce of his remaining willpower not to black out from the pain and leave the wound semi-cauterized, which would have only made things a _hell_ of a lot worse.

The pain was un_-freaking_-believable. If he thought taking out a metal shard from his torso had been bad, this was as close to hellish torture as he could imagine. His nerves were already going _haywire_ from the amount of pain he'd otherwise already been in, and now with him effectively setting himself on _fire_, his poor nervous system was on the verge of systemic collapse.

He scoffed almost arrogantly as he pushed back at the pain, the scent of charred flesh filtering through his nose. "Whining about a little fire? _Me?_" he growled under his breath, not noticing that his previous yells had gone unnoticed in the ongoing battle as the sound of gunfire and explosions drowned him out.

After a few seconds—had it really taken that little time?—Harry dropped the spell and allowed himself a few seconds of repose as he breathed deeply, still trying to bring the pain under control.

It took a few minutes, but Harry soon felt well enough to try to get back onto his feet, though he was under no impression that he didn't need to seek out medical attention the moment he could without getting shot at by the enemy. Slowly getting back to his feet, he stumbled a few times as his pained legs wavered under his weight. Very carefully, he took one step, then another—always making sure he was hidden by the burning wreckage of the jeep—and made looked around for any other survivors or bodies. To his great relief—thus far—he could not see Josefina's body anywhere, which probably meant that she had been dragged away or was still alive. Looking behind him, he saw that the 75th Regiment's convoy had stopped as soon as the jeep had all but exploded and the soldiers were using the armoured supply trucks they had been moving in as cover.

He briefly considered running over, considering that he was an officer and thus responsible for keeping the fight organized, but something struck him as odd. Why hadn't the air patrols noticed the ambushing forces? It wasn't as though Britain was necessarily lacking in air forces, after all. Besides the Navy, the Royal Air Force was probably the most well-funded of the three main branches, leaving the Army and Artillery to typically suffer as a result. That meant that their patrols _should_ have noticed something, considering their high-tech equipment.

That cold shiver he'd felt prior to the ambush returned in full force as Harry quickly kneeled by a section of the jeep that _wasn't_ on fire and brought up his right hand. Setting his fingers ready for a snap, he aimed them down at the floor and concentrated on the spell he wanted.

"_Magus Revelo_," he intoned as he snapped his fingers. He smiled in satisfaction as the spell went off flawlessly and hit the ground, where the spell quickly got to work. The Magic Reveal spell was a damned useful thing to know he concluded as he watched the spell literally trace different arcane symbols on the ground as it did its job.

Much like a normal radar, it formed a circular shape on whatever surface it was cast and, surrounded by various arcane and runic symbols, it would then scan the immediate area (roughly a circle of 10 kilometres in every direction from the point of origin) for any uses of magic beside its own. From what Harry understood, the Ministry of Magic had several, higher powered yet far more ancient variations of this spell working at all times in the Ministry itself, ostensibly to monitor underage magic.

A ping made Harry's stomach plummet. Sure enough, there was a mage in the near vicinity, and wards had been put up to…Harry narrowed his eyes. He wasn't familiar with that particular ward. Judging from the effects and size, he had to guess it was meant to camouflage an area from view…but it didn't seem quite right. He sighed in frustration—he hated not knowing something.

Still, this made something exceedingly clear. Someone in the Spanish Ministry had probably wised up about his presence, or at least suspected the British of using a mage in a Muggle war—which was by itself reason enough for one Ministry to declare war on another. On the off chance that this was merely meant to test that theory, Harry wasn't willing to blow his cover and bring down a legion of Ministry-trained mages to make life impossible on the British Army.

Glancing down at the magical radar, he concluded that this was the most likely scenario, considering the fact that there was only one mage in the vicinity, and judging from its location on the magical screen, he or she was not directly incorporated with the Spanish troops. That meant he had to fight these ambushers the old fashioned way. Unfortunately, he was also quite cut off from his men, as the nearest supply truck was a good fifteen meters away. Injured as he was, he'd be slow enough to give any mediocre shot a good target if he tried to make a run for it.

Cursing silently to himself, he quickly dispelled the Magic Reveal spell and looked over to the men defending the trucks. He quickly caught sight of one face he was familiar with.

"Harrison!" he shouted loudly. He cringed as he promptly heard several bullets hit the jeep's smouldering wreckage. Clearly, not the best idea he'd had.

Nonetheless, the person in question quickly turned to look at him and he saw a look of utter relief on the man's face, which truthfully did not serve to raise Harry's confidence.

"Sir!" Harrison shouted back. "Thank god you're alive!"

Harry nodded. "Sit Rep!" he ordered loudly over the gunfire.

Harrison, kneeling by the front of the truck, made covert motions to the other side, towards the hills by the road. "Bastards completely flanked us, sir!" he shouted back at his superior. "Most of Dog Company has been killed, and the rest of us are barely holding on!"

Harry cursed silently. "How many do we still have?"

"Charlie Company is good to go, sir!" Harrison shouted back. "Easy is holding down the rear of the convoy, Bravo is holding down the middle, and Albert is moving to plug up the hole left by Dog!"

One company. _One_. 200 men, _at best_, against an unknown number of enemy troops dug in at higher ground. It was like something out of a tactician's worst _nightmare_.

"Anyone have a functional radio over there?" he shouted anxiously.

Harrison turned to talk to his comrades, and after a few minutes of deliberation—and probably a call down the line to see if any of the companies had one—Harrison turned and nodded. Harry let out a breath of relief at the news. At least the magical field hadn't _completely_ screwed them over.

"Call in air support!" he ordered. "On my authority! Recognition code Mike-Foxtrot-Whiskey-Zero-Zero-Eight-Niner!"

Harrison gave him a thumbs up in acknowledgement and turned to his nearest comrade, obviously relaying the order. It didn't take long after that, thankfully. Though he guessed there was a small delay while the pilots protested that their equipment had found nothing on the hill, Harry's identification code ensured that the brass had to taken his request very seriously, as he was far more capable of detecting magical threats than any common soldier. Thus, just for safety's sake, a strike was ordered at the given coordinates, and it was with great pleasure that Harry watched as the side of the hill was suddenly lit on fire as precision missiles detonated right on target.

Taking full advantage of the distraction, Harry also booked it for the trucks, getting dragged behind them by Harrison and another soldier as he neared them and stumbled. Fortunately, the Spanish ambushers were too busy reeling from the air strike to bother killing him.

Breathing heavily, he leaned against the deflated tire of the truck and stared at Harrison for a moment, nodding thankfully for the assist. Quickly, however, he got back to business. "Okay…now I need a more in depth sit-rep," he said evenly. "How many officers dead?" he asked, dreading the answer.

Harrison seemed uncomfortable relaying the news, however. "Colonel Strider is dead," he informed his superior, feeling guilty as he saw the Major blanch. "So are the lieutenant colonels. Major Weir is dead too—hit by a stray bullet. Major Heyes is critically wounded, but we're managing to keep him alive, somehow."

Harry nodded silently, taking in the officer casualty list dully. He'd liked Strider—he was a good man who stood up for his men against the brass when he felt they were being pushed too hard. Lieutenant Colonel Williams hadn't been all bad either. The tragic irony was that his own immediate superior, Lieutenant Colonel Sink, had returned to active duty just days ago, retaking command of the battalion from Harry—all the while complaining that any more sick time would have killed him. Now, he was dead, barely a week into his re-established command.

Harry was no fool, either. He realized that Harrison had purposely listed the officer casualties by order of succession, meaning that Harry was now, technically, the CO of the 75th Regiment _pro tempore_ until they got to 2nd Army HQ. He had no illusions that he'd be given command of the regiment outright upon return, however. Even if they did decide to promote him, they could only really do so to Lieutenant Colonel if they wanted to be fair. Promoting him to full Colonel at this point would reek of favouritism.

Thinking quietly, Harry came to a conclusion. He could think of all this more in depth once he reached a British encampment. For now, he had to get his men out of this situation alive.

"Right," he said stoically. "Harrison!"

"Sir!"

"I want eyes on the hill—tell me what the enemy's doing!"

"Yes, sir!"

Harry didn't have to wait long for the report to come in.

"Sir, they seem to be in disarray!" Harrison reported. "Wilkins reports a huge commotion within their ranks!"

Harry nodded, withdrawing his service pistol from its holster and drawing confused looks from the men around him. "There's a mage up there with them," he explained simply. "They probably want to see if it's true that we have a mage on our side as well."

Harrison nodded. "No need to let them know, eh?" he mused, causing Harry to nod.

"Exactly," he agreed, before leaning his head slightly out of cover to glance at the situation on the hill. Good, they were still in some sort of mass confusion. "Harrison, call in the flyboys again. Tell them to give the same area another dose. Then round up Charlie Company and get ready to move out on my command."

"Yes, sir!"

Harry shifted his stance into a crouch as he waited for his orders to get carried out. Glancing down the makeshift line, he could already see the members of Charlie Company bunching up by the gaps between the trucks and getting ready to move, meaning that the order to resume aerial bombing had gone through.

He didn't have to wait long thereafter for the bombing to resume once more. He had barely managed to even register the sound of jet engines screaming through the sky before the hillside was once again decorated with massive explosions, giving him the signal he wanted.

"NOW!" he roared as he moved out of cover and raced towards the hill. "MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!"

With a fierce war cry, the men of Charlie Company wasted no time in following their CO's orders, already catching up to the wounded man as they raced towards the hillside to capitalize on the damage the bombings had incurred.

Every step hurt like hell for Harry. Every single step. Yet, flooded as he was with adrenaline, the only thing he could feel for sure at this point was the rapid beating of his heart as he led—or was led, considering how many were passing him by—his men up the hillside. About one hundred meters of uphill forest they had to run, give or take, before they reached the bombed out Spanish positions.

The first shots that Charlie Company fired up at their ambushers went without enemy response, given the disorganized state the runs had left them in. They quickly recovered, however, as they realized they were now under frontal attack.

Machine gun fire opened up on Charlie Company, and it was thanks to the forest around them that they weren't immediately cut down in their entirety. Nevertheless, a good dozen perished in the opening volleys before an ingenious member grabbed a grenade from his belt and threw it at the gun nest, making it detonate spectacularly and impressing upon the others the solution to the machine gun problem.

Gun nests, however, were not their entire issue. Upon jumping over the sand-bagged stockades around the ambush position, Harry quickly realized that the Spanish army hadn't been screwing around with this ambush of theirs. At least three Companies worth of enemy soldiers were running around in a desperate attempt at refortifying their position. Harry wasn't about to let that happen, however.

Quickly making the short jump over the sandbag wall, he took almost casual aim with his pistol and opened fire, hitting an enemy soldier with sergeant stripes twice in the head. Taking more careful aim, his next volley ended the life of a man wearing Lieutenant insignia. His men were not far behind him in opening fire, either, and quickly, dozens of Spaniards were falling to the ground heavily injured or dead.

Taking cover behind a couple of barrels of water—or so he presumed, considering their lack of gasoline smell—Harry ejected his pistol clip and reloaded as quickly as possible before dispatching another three soldiers who had wanted to take advantage of the lull in his firing to eliminate him, given that he seemed to be the highest ranked officer around.

Harry wasn't interested in them, however. He wanted the mage that had helped these soldiers murder his comrades. He wanted that person's blood, and he wasn't about to let him or her get away. He waited patiently while the rest of Charlie Company rushed past him, guns blazing and the enemy practically in full retreat from the sudden ground assault, before casting the Mage Reveal spell on the ground once more. The stray thought that the mage could be using the same spell to track him never once crossed his mind. Fortunately for him, it didn't seem so, as the blip on the magical radar appeared exactly in the same place it had been before, which meant the mage was probably hiding somewhere at an elevated altitude, watching the debacle transpire—probably hoping that Harry would snap and use his fire magic and so confirm his existence.

Well, to hell with that.

Carefully, Harry dispelled the spell and moved from cover to cover, often shooting into the confused Spanish ranks to mask his sly manoeuvring towards the mage's probable blind spot. Crossing the entire Spanish camp such that he reached another forest, he circled around the mage's position and came up from behind, his pistol tightly grasped in both hands as he slowly made his way towards his target.

Taking extreme care not to step on any fallen branches or dead leaves, he slowly sidled up to the mage and instantly recognized the figure as female. From her stance, however, he could tell she was no slouch, but she was unfortunately much too absorbed in the fighting before her to notice his approach. Thus, quite easily, he got up behind her, decided to forego his pistol, drew his combat knife, and in one, smooth move, stabbed into her back, right into her left kidney—just as his free hand raced up and silenced her by clapping itself over her mouth.

He felt a bit of moisture in said hand at that point—probably from the silenced scream of pain. That was incomparable to the feeling of blood drenching his knife-wielding hand, however, as he drew out the knife and repeatedly stabbed again and again into the wound. Each time, she convulsed from shock, but his grip was steady and his stabs aimed true. After the fourth stab, however, he ceased his attack and withdrew his knife entirely, letting the woman fall to the ground with a soft thud.

Dispassionately, he cleaned his combat knife with the fallen woman's robes and sheathed it at his side once more before kneeling to the ground, fully aware that the woman was probably still alive, though just barely, and certainly not in any position to use any magic. Her renal artery had been severed, and her kidney torn to shreds. She would bleed out within minutes.

Kneeling by her, he softly turned the body around and felt a pang of regret as he observed the dirtied but otherwise pretty features of the young woman. Such a waste. Unfortunately for her, she had been picked to carry out a job that put her in direct opposition to his goals, and he wasn't about to allow her to ruin things for him.

He watched her wide, brown eyes look at the sky in confusion and desperation, obviously quite aware of her current predicament. Her breathing was ragged and hollow, and her chest barely moved anymore as she desperately clung to life.

Lowering a hand to her face, Harry brushed away a few strands of golden hair. "Sorry luv," he apologized sincerely. "Nothing personal. Just business."

Well, that wasn't entirely true. The fact that numerous of his comrades lay dead was entirely her fault, and he _had_ felt a measure of satisfaction with every spasm she'd gone through as he stabbed her. Still, it wasn't something he wished to be told on _his_ deathbed, so he refrained from saying so to her.

"_N…No q-quiero…_" she whimpered pleadingly. "…_m-morir…_"

Harry was dispassionate as he heard her plead for her life. He'd heard that phrase so often on the battlefield that he no longer needed a translator to tell him what it meant. She didn't want to die. Big surprise. Only the crazies ever _truly_ wanted to die. He answered her pleading with what he typically told the soldiers who pleaded to him.

"_Vaya con Dios_." Go with God. Why was that phrase sounding so hollow to his ears now?

He watched as her eyes widened slightly, as though something had surprised her, and a last gasp flew between her pinkish lips. Then, nothing. Her chest stopped, her eyes glassed over, devoid of their spark, and the tremulous shaking of her limbs had finally ceased. With great respect, he raised a hand and closed her eyes and mouth, giving her the impression of deep sleep.

She was dead, and he was now in the clear once again.

Harry sighed again. What a damned waste.

* * *

**Santander, Spain, January 28****th****, 2010 (D-Day +366)…**

Harry woke up groggily, his vision still a little blurry from the massive hangover he was feeling. The previous night, he'd been out celebrating with his fellow Regimental officers the anniversary of the British invasion of northern Spain, with predictable results.

"Oh good, you're up!" a chirpy voice pierced into his consciousness, exacerbating his headache and causing him to groan. He heard the voice scoff and shortly thereafter, a cup of _something_ was thrust into his hands. "Take it, it's what papa used to take after he drank too much."

Well, that certainly narrowed the options for the voice's identity to one. Josefina. Gratefully, he drank the greyish liquid, grimacing at its ungodly awful taste. Though he heard Josefina giggle, he did acknowledge that his headache seemed to go down some, so he wasn't about to protest. His vision quickly cleared, too, from the shock of the awful drink.

Standing before him was indeed Josefina, her tall, lithe figure looming over him as he sat on the edge of his cot. Predictably, she was staring down at him with a reproachful look and her arms crossed, clearly displeased with his countenance.

"Honestly! A Lieutenant Colonel should not look so shoddy!" she berated him.

Harry grimaced. His promotion to Lieutenant Colonel had come at a cost he was not comfortable with, but it _had_ come, about two months after the ambush at Palencia. With it came the _official_ assignment of 1st Battalion of the 75th Regiment, something Harry was glad to have, although he certainly wished it didn't involve so much paperwork. On the other hand, however, it did give him time to teach Josefina more fluent English, which was starting to show through her slowly developing Anglicized vocabulary. Oh, she'd still swear at him in Spanish, and was his primary interpreter whenever he was dealing with local authorities, but he had always thought that it would be a disgrace not to encourage her to develop her linguistic skills—which were great indeed—more thoroughly simply because of a lack of teachers. As it was, she was already working her way through the first steps of French, as Harry had pointed out that France tended to be the most powerful of the European nations, with Britain only shortly behind.

She still disappeared at times, however—something he'd never quite found out about all these months. Even after recovering from a nasty neck injury during the ambush at Palencia, she had continued her occasional venture out into the military camps and returned during the evening soaked in her own sweat and completely exhausted. After a while, however, he simply dismissed her outings as personal exercise, seeing as her body tone seemed to become more muscular.

"Whatever," he mumbled as he rested his head in his hands. "What's on the books for today, Josie?" he asked wearily. That was another change—he'd insisted on naming Josefina his number one personal assistant, even though there were literally a slew of applicants hoping to get the job. In the end, he hadn't been able to do so, seeing as how she was neither British nor military personnel, but he had managed to wiggle her into the unofficial position of personal assistant. While she could not access the more restricted files or demand them in his name, she pretty much took care of _all_ his scheduling and delegating.

"Colour Harrison wants a word about changing the drill schedule," she recited off the top of her head. "Major Speirs is due to get released from the hospital today and resuming command of Dog Company; Major Shepherd is on the books for patrol duty today; and a shipment of new recruits is expected to arrive by six in the afternoon."

Harry nodded thankfully. Getting up, he winced slightly at the jolt of pain coming from his torso, an unhappy reminder of his brush with death all those months ago. The doctors had been torn between calling him an idiot and praising him for his ingenuity, but were universally opposed to his decision to lead the attack on the hill; they had called it a "damn fool thing."

Even now, healed far more efficiently thanks to professional medical intervention, the fact that he cauterized the wound essentially condemned him to pangs of pain once in a while from that area, and the doctors had claimed there was nothing they could do to make that go away. Harry could live with it, however. It wasn't fatal, or really even a hindrance—so long as he managed to acclimatize himself to it over time.

"Any word on when our rotation to England is due?" he asked neutrally. It was one thing he'd been hoping a _lot_ to hear about. The higher-ups would never reveal the details, but there was known to be a schedule of rotation whereby each regiment not immediately needed for combat would be given a chance to go home to England and have some leave time. Officially, doing garrison duty, like the 75th now was at Santander, was technically leave time, but _nothing_ ever beat going home.

Josefina shook her head. "Not even a whisper."

Harry's face kept its neutrality at the pronouncement. Throughout his convalescence, he had kept up a steady correspondence with Elicia, and by the tone of her letters, she was becoming borderline hysterical at the fact that she could not be at his side while he lay in a hospital bed. Then again, it spoke to how battered the 75th Regiment had come out of the ambush that he was essentially tasked with keeping up the Regimental paperwork from his hospital bed.

Colonel Strider was dead, for one, and there were no available Colonels to replace him. Harry himself could not be promoted two ranks without breaking massive amounts of precedents, and so he was merely promoted up to Lieutenant Colonel, patted on the shoulder in a gesture of consolation for his losses, and then promptly given command of the 75th. The way Major General Johnson had insinuated it, there were no plans at the moment to change this arrangement at all, so Harry's position as regimental CO was not _pro tempore_, as his assignment to the 1st Battalion HQ had initially been, but completely official.

Harry sighed as he pushed himself off his cot and went to get showered and dressed. Another dull day at work, it seemed.

* * *

**London, United Kingdom, March 28****th****, 2010…**

Sirius was an incredibly proud godfather at the moment.

Word had filtered in from the front lines in Spain that the British forces had finally managed to take down Salamanca after nearly three months of constant, street-by-street fighting. The death toll had been, obviously, horrendous for both sides, but the British forces had, for all intents and purposes, crushed the last Spanish bastion standing between the Northern Front and the 4th Army based in Gibraltar. And at the centre of the success at Salamanca? The 75th Regiment, on loan from the 2nd Army to the 1st, where they distinguished themselves by being the regiment to have made the final push into the centre of the city and captured the enemy HQ. After that, Spanish resistance had all but broken down, and the remaining elements fled east to Madrid, which the British knew would require essentially every last British trooper in Spanish soil to take.

What made Sirius proud of his godson, however, was not so much the fact that his regiment had been the one to seal the British victory, but rather that he was being honoured for it with a Victoria Cross, as the stories coming from the battlefield said that, for the very last push, Harry had personally led the offensive from the top of a loaned Challenger 2 tank, refusing to back down in his belief that the Spanish lines could be broken once and for all with one final, fast push. Well, granted, the VC wouldn't be _just_ given for this one act of valour above and beyond the call of officer service, but also for his ability to save the 75th from destruction during the ambush at Palencia—again, by leading from the front.

In fact, it was a running thing in Parliament for many of his closer colleagues to idly wonder whether insanity ran in the family, given his own exploits in the honoured chamber. For while Harry was hard at work at being the very best soldier the UK had ever seen, Sirius was hard at work behind the scenes, manipulating public opinion in favour of his godson in particular and always working for the giving of more money towards the Armed Forces—both of which served to cement Harry's heroic presence in the public mind as well as put the Armed Forces firmly in their debt. It was a debt Harry had been craving for quite a while, and even more urgently once it became obvious that the mages in Spain had become suspicious of potential mage involvement in the British army.

That had been one of Sirius' tasks, too—to defuse the Spanish suspicions. To that end, he employed many of his contacts in the mage community to publicly dismiss the suspicions—which were slowly becoming widely known to the British Ministry of Magic—as ridiculous. So far, it had worked, but he was noticing that, with time, it was becoming harder and harder to keep the Ministry at bay in their own suspicions. In fact, he had been recently unable to have his people in the Ministry block a piece of legislation that ordered an immediate reviewing of all census data of the past thirty years to determine who could fit the profile of the mystery mage the Spanish seemed adamant existed within the British forces in Spain. From what he'd been told, there was no immediate danger of them finding out about Harry's true identity, but he was becoming less sure of that fact with every passing report.

Despite his joy for his godson, Sirius sighed as the stress of keeping up the Potters' spy ring, for lack of a better word, crept up on him. He truly wished Lily, James, and Isabella would come back to the UK. Besides missing them dearly—and only being able to see them whenever they _briefly_ visited William in Liverpool—he could also use the help in managing the Ministry contacts, the mage smugglers, and the fuel crystal production facilities. As it stood, however, he was called upon to administrate _all_ of this. Practically by himself. He'd suggested bringing Remus into the plan, but apparently had been pre-empted by James, who had already brought the taciturn werewolf into the fold and sent him to Europe to administrate the contacts and companies _there_.

Not that he wasn't enjoying himself, however. In working at Parliament and doing all the Potters' less-than-legal businesses, Sirius had found himself thoroughly enjoying himself, to the point where he believed he'd found his calling in life. At Parliament, he was, ostensibly, the MP for Liverpool, but in reality served more as the voice of the Potters' collective will—which, considering their current base in Liverpool, seemed to coincide with the city's own interests.

The perks were nice, too. Based off his own considerable fortune, now wisely invested in both normal and magical enterprises, he had managed to purchase a rather posh loft in Kensington and Chelsea. Out of it, he could effectively stay near Parliament and at the same time play off his image as an eccentric, yet approachable MP, which had served to make him wildly popular among both the general public and his own constituency. His mage contacts, however, knew that there was a strict policy against Flooing into his home unless in the event of a great emergency, given the fact that he could be hosting important (and more importantly, ignorant) guests at any moment.

Which was why he almost felt a heart attack hit him when he saw the allegedly decorative fireplace suddenly burst into green flames. Just as quickly, a short, pudgy man practically rolled onto his carpeted floor, looking rather dishevelled and panicky.

"Mister Black!" the man cried out. "We have an emergency!"

Quickly pulling out his wand, Sirius silenced the man with a quick flick and then glared at him as he heard the door to his room upstairs open.

"Michael, baby, who is that?" a female voice rang out, causing the short pudgy man to blanch as he realized how much he'd fucked things up. "I heard something about an emergency?"

"No one, darling!" Sirius shouted back to his one-night stand, feeling his heartbeat quicken as he heard her uncovered feet hit the first marble step. "Just the telly!"

The steps stopped. "Oh, okay," the two men heard the woman say. "Why can't I hear it anymore?"

Sirius saw the short man sweat a little and glared at him to stay still. "Muted it, dear!" he called back. "Didn't realize it was so loud when I turned it on!"

"Oh, alright then," the woman replied, and the two men exchanged relieved glances. "Come back to bed soon, okay?"

"Of course! Be right up in a few, alright?"

"See you soon!" the woman called back seductively. The moment the sound of a door closing reached their ears, both men in the living room sagged in relief.

With a quick flick, Sirius put up a one-way silencing ward, allowing him to monitor any other sounds in the apartment, while keeping what was said within he ward silent to outside priers. Only _then_ did he lift the silencing spell from his contact at the Ministry.

"What did I say about Flooing here, Watson?" he hissed angrily. "Thank _god_ that woman's got more air between her ears than brain matter, or else we'd be in a real tight spot!"

The short man bowed feebly in apology at his boss. "So sorry, Mister Black!" he apologized frantically. "I just thought…it's an emergency, you see!"

Sirius calmed himself down enough listen to what his contact had to say. Admittedly, Watson was very good about following protocol, so by that logic, he would never have broken the rules of contact without due cause. Walking over towards the fireplace, he took a seat in his favourite armchair. "Fine. What's the big emergency?" he asked plainly, motioning for Watson to take a seat on the other side of the fireplace.

Watson did so gratefully, his hands still wrangling nervously. "Well, you remember how you had Reid and I look into the Spanish matter inquiry, right?" he asked and quickly resumed talking when he saw Sirius' irritated glare. "W-Well, Reid's team has supposedly found a major lead."

Sirius froze at the news. That was so very _not_ good. "What kind of lead?" he asked quickly.

Watson was clearly intimidated with his boss' sudden fervour. "S-Supposedly, one of the Muggleborn n-noted the sudden disap-p-pearance of the Potters from all c-census data in 1991," he relayed. "W-When the r-records showed a-absolutely no reason for t-that, the Muggleborn s-suggested they ask for M-Muggle census d-data from t-that year. P-presumably because i-it reminded him of s-something o-out of a s-story he liked."

Sirius felt his stomach plummet. "And?" he pressed.

"They f-found that m-many n-new names were f-filed that y-year…but only a-about a dozen f-fitted the t-three person f-family profile," he stuttered out. "T-they've a-already ruled out t-ten of them."

The colour from Sirius' face drained as he realized the implications of where Watson was going. "Who are they interviewing now?" he asked desperately. He had to warn William. James. Lily. Isabella…hell _Harry_ had to be told _immediately_, nevermind himself!

"A f-family called the P-Porters," Watson said in a small voice.

Sirius sighed in mild relief. At least they weren't onto the Whites already. Still, that left him precious little time to get the contingency plans in action.

"Good work, Watson," he praised nonetheless. After all, the man had done good by bringing this to his attention. "You can leave now. Try to act natural at the Ministry, and keep _strictly_ to protocol from now on for at _least_ the next month, understood?"

Watson nodded fervently. "O-Of course, sir!" he said fervently before shyly looking up. "Err…t-this…won't change what happens to…?"

"Your daughter's hospital bills will continue to be paid on time, Watson," Sirius assured him. "The Potters take care of their own, after all."

Watson bowed his head gratefully at Sirius. "Thank you, sir!" he thanked him sincerely. "Thank you for everything!"

Sirius nodded silently and made a gesture of dismissal, which Watson complied with without any fuss. Immediately, Sirius brought down the silencing ward and quickly brought out his cell-phone. Pressing on the number 1 for a second, he smiled as the device auto-dialled the pre-saved number. "Henry, it's me," he spoke into the device. "Yeah. It's that time. How quickly can you get here? Ten minutes? Make it five and I'll make sure you get bonus pay for this. Uh-huh…uh-huh…alright then, see you soon."

With a click, Sirius closed the cell phone and quickly got to work in dismantling the unlicensed Floo connection, thankful that he'd managed to get his hands on one of the Floo technicians' manuals for creating and dismantling one. By the time the doorbell rang, the job was done and Sirius was quick to get to the door.

After a short chat with Henry, Sirius left the loft and quickly sped away from the area, headed straight for Liverpool. On the way, he had his car dial the number for William. Once he heard the young man's voice speak up, Sirius began explaining the situation.

"William, we've got a _big_ problem headed our way."

"Oh? Do tell."

"Cat's out of the bag," was all Sirius had to say, and immediately the line went dead. William had immediately understood.

Now to tell Harry.

* * *

**Santander, Spain, March 28****th****, 2010 (D-Day +426)…**

"What do you _mean_ they're onto us?" Harry hissed into the secure phone he'd been led to by the military aide. "Muggleborn? What's that got to—_fuck_!" he swore as he came to the same conclusion as Sirius on the other side of the line. "Spy movies, huh? Never thought someone would pull _that_ on us. Did you get your body double in place? You did? Great, that's _some_ good news, I guess."

Harry stared at the blank wall in front of him as he listened to Sirius talk before scowling. "No, I can't just disappear!" he snapped back. "We're on the freaking verge of the award ceremony! The Prime Minister himself is here! There's no _way_ I could pull the switch in time!"

Harry's scowl deepened as he heard Sirius' protests. "I know damn well how serious this is, Sirius!" he hissed. "But I can't just excuse myself with a fucking tummy ache from this, now can I?" he glared at the wall. "I don't frankly give a fuck how dirty my language is—I think I've got a right to swear at this point, don't _you_?"

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose as he scrunched his eyes in deep thought. "Okay, okay, listen…" he said in a placating tone as his thoughts kept racing. "I'll go through the ceremony as planned, but the moment I get off stage, I pull the switch, okay?"

Harry opened his eyes and narrowed them just as quickly at Sirius' response. "Well, I'm _sorry_, princess, do _you_ have a better idea at this point?" he asked scathingly. "Yes, I know it's reckless, and yes I know it's damned risky, but it's the best we're going to get at this point. Besides, I don't think they're dumb enough to try and pull something in front of international television cameras."

Harry leaned against the wall and nodded slightly as he heard Sirius reply. "Of course I'm sure. You just worry about your end," he suggested. "Out here, it'll be a hell of a lot more difficult to take me in without alerting the entire army, but you guys are practically in the open."

Harry nodded again. "Yeah, alright. Love you too, Sirius. Send my love to Ellie when you see her, and tell John to keep an eye on her. Alright…yeah…bye."

Sighing heavily, Harry put down the phone and left the isolated room, earning himself a slightly anxious look from Josefina as he met her outside.

"Is everything alright?" she asked, having noticed his extreme stress immediately.

Harry shrugged. "A little problem back home, nothing that can't be handled," he replied evenly. Josefina, of course, didn't buy it. Having been at his side since he rescued her, she'd been around him long enough to decode some of his more neutral phrases. "A little problem," for instance, typically meant a _huge_ fuckup.

Still, it wasn't her place to say anything on that respect unless he brought it up himself, so she remained quiet as she followed him down the hall and towards the building entrance, where the official military jeep was waiting to bring him to the school where they would be performing the ceremony.

The ride itself was dominated by an almost oppressive silence as Harry brooded silently, the entire way. The driver, for his part, remained stoically quiet, as his job required, and Josefina alternated between looking out at the scenery and glancing at her guardian worriedly.

When they got to the school, Harry thanked the driver, who saluted primly and helped Josefina get out of the jeep, earning her thanks as well. Together, the duo quickly moved towards the medium-sized covered gymnasium, where most of the guests were apparently already there—probably only waiting for him and the PM's caravan.

Mingling among the brass and other soldiers who were due to be honoured at this award ceremony, Harry couldn't help the cold shiver that ran down his spine as the time of the ceremony's actual happening closed in. He knew he'd told Sirius that the odds of the mages trying to get him during the ceremony were small, but that did not make them nonexistent. There _was_ a chance they'd be that brazen, but a bigger chance they wouldn't be. The question was, was he willing to take that bet, like he'd taken the equally ridiculous bets at Palencia and when fighting that sniper in Burgos?

Could his luck really hold that strong?

More importantly, could he afford it _not _to be?

When he saw the PM's caravan drive into the school's roundabout, he knew immediately that the choice had been made for him. He'd have to take the bet and let the dice roll as they did. There wasn't going to be any plans, any tricks he could pull at this point. It all boiled down to lady luck and the hope that the mages were far more cautious than he gave them credit for.

Harry watched, almost as though it were a scene out of a news show, as the armoured car's door opened and a familiar man stepped out, his Prime Ministerial smile in full force as he waved at the awaiting crowd by the gymnasium doors, who greeted him with applause and a few cheers. So far, so good.

Even as the PM and the audience filtered into the gymnasium, Harry felt his hopes rise slightly, as the ceremony itself seemed to proceed without much fuss. The regular awards came first, of course—better to save the best for last and all that. There was polite clapping at each award presentation, and the Prime Minister gave an obviously rehearsed speech praising each award nominee for their bravery, dedication, and so on. When they'd finally finished the regular awards and were going to name him for the Victoria Cross, Harry's tenseness had visibly decreased, his mind set on the idea that the mages would not be so stupid as to interrupt the event.

How wrong he was.

When his name was called, Harry stood proudly and calmly walked over to the Prime Minister's place by the centre of the elevated stage, the cameras in the audience flashing and the news cameras filming. Dressed in immaculate dress uniform, Harry was the very picture of soldierly perfection, and he knew it—he had dressed for it, too. With a sincere smile, he raised his left hand to shake the Prime Minister's, and that's when he saw it, and his hopes were dashed.

Behind the camera crews at the very back, numerous, robed people began to appear soundlessly, all of them wearing crimson robes that Harry identified immediately. Ministry Aurors.

Fuck.

Harry understood their sudden appearance, as well. They had been specifically waiting for him to be called upon, to make sure they had their designated target. When they raised their wands, however, Harry couldn't help but feel a moment of incredulity before his instincts took over and he began pulling at the Prime Minister's hand, surprising the man as he did so, but just in time to avoid a spell to the Prime Minister's face. By the colour of it, a stunning spell.

Chaos erupted immediately.

Harry watched as the Aurors systematically shot some sort of spell at the broadcast cameras that seemed to fry them—thereby removing the potential revelation to the world of magic's existence. They then, to his utter shock, began firing into the crowd—mostly stunning spells, but there were a few vicious bludgeoning spells applied to those they seemed to feel threatened by. And with good reason.

The military men in the hall quickly drew service pistols and retaliated against the Aurors with all due ferocity, causing many of the mages to have to stop casting offensively and focus on defensive, anti-ballistic spells. By doing so, they effectively cut their offensive power by three quarters, as the shields could only take so much before someone else had to cast it while the initial caster put the shield back up.

Harry, for his part, had also drawn his pistol, but was standing guard over the Prime Minister, who seemed to have understood the severity of the situation and kept lying down on his stomach, hands over his head. The security contingent seemed to realize the futility of getting the Prime Minister off the stage, too, as the Aurors kept up a steady stream of fire against Harry, missing only by so much as he distracted their aim with gunfire.

It wasn't a tactic meant to succeed forever, however, and he knew it. Still, by the way the soldiers in the room were forcing the Aurors back, it seemed possible that he wouldn't have to defend himself magically. Just in case, however, he sent Josefina—who was now at the foot of the stage and looking up at him—a knowing nod, which she quickly returned before dashing towards the back of the stage.

In the meantime, however, the mages managed to surprise Harry yet again. Four more Aurors seemed to Apparate onto the stage, catching him by surprise only for a fraction of a second before his instincts had him aiming at the nearest one and firing three times—all chest hits. The Auror promptly crumpled to the ground; dead from too slow a reaction time.

The other two Aurors looked enraged by the death of their comrade, but the third one—the leader, he presumed, given her dispassionate stare towards him and her look of authority—kept her eyes on him.

"Francis White, née Harry James Potter," she spoke authoritatively. "You are hereby placed under arrest by the will of the Wizengamot and the Ministry of Magic for unlawful use of magic against Muggles, reckless endangerment of the Statute of Secrecy, and failure to register as a wizard. Come quietly and no one else needs to get hurt."

Harry ignored the small gasp from the Prime Minister as he levelled his own neutral stare at the woman. "You want me?" he asked dangerously, noting the arrival of Josefina at the short stairway leading to the stage. "Then _come get me_," he challenged, just as he saw Josefina thrust a bundled pack at him.

The move surprised the three remaining Aurors on the stage, and they quickly turned to stun Josefina, who quickly dodged the spells by jumping to the side. Harry, meanwhile, got up and easily caught the bundle. With a pull, he unravelled it and revealed two NCO 1840-patterned swords, each possessing a 1.5 inch wide straight blade. Cool confidence was all that remained on Harry's face as he stared down his attackers.

"It may have been a while since I've fenced in live combat," he noted casually. "So I hope you'll forgive me if I come across as a little rusty."

The Auror lead wasted no time and quickly moved to stun him, but Harry was too quick for her. Rather than aim for the leader, however, he struck at the two junior Aurors, blade in each hand. He wasn't so quick they couldn't follow him, of course, but the fact that they'd been distracted by Josefina's presence had thrown them off their game, which suited him just fine.

"Wilkins! Dawson! _LOOK OUT!_" he heard the woman yell as she caught onto his aim.

Harry struck at the two recovering Aurors like a viper, his swords quickly finding their targets and sinking into their torso's flesh, each of them piercing the Aurors' stomachs. At the very least, it surprised them both and brought them to the ground, unused to the piercing pain.

Rather than let the blades rust in their victims' blood, however, Harry drew the swords out of their wounds and turned to face the female Auror. Quickly, he stepped aside as a vicious looking bludgeoning spell raced by where he'd been standing, and quickly brought his right-hand sword to a guard position, while his left hung down, its purpose, for now, accomplished.

"Murderer!" screamed the redheaded Auror, her powerful spells clearly denoting her substantial magical ability. With almost practiced ease, however, Harry parried each one with his right hand sword, much to the woman's shock.

"Goblin steel?" she yelled incredulously. "T-Those treacherous _bastards_!"

Harry grimaced internally, keeping a look of utter cool on the outside. He'd hoped that no one would make the connection between the goblins and his family, but this woman seemed to be familiar with the workings of magically resistant goblin-wrought steel. This made his silent vow not to use magic seem all the more hopeless now, as it meant the woman would probably also be familiar with the types of spell that even goblin steel couldn't parry.

Sure enough, the woman began to resort to elemental spells, sending jets of boiling water, electric bolts, and other such feats of elemental magic at him. Stabbing down onto the wooden stage with the swords, Harry abandoned them as he ran forward and slid underneath the spells, headed straight for the Prime Minister. The situation was getting quickly out of hand and if the woman upped her attacks just a little bit more, it could very well endanger the life of the leader of the British nation—which Harry could just _not_ allow.

Thus, he aimed for a quick snatch and run of the man, but was forced to twist around and kick at the woman's outstretched hand as she readied to hit him in the back with what appeared to be a wind-based spell. Unfortunately, doing so caused her aim to rocket skyward and, more importantly, caused the spell to hit the roof.

Despite the situation, Harry was impressed to see that the woman's spell managed to not only crack the roof, but pierce right through it. Unfortunately, it also meant that there were now huge chunks of concrete falling towards them. The woman, having slightly spun around due to the kick, had not yet noticed, leaving Harry as the only one who could save them, as running out of the way with the PM in hand was just physically impossible.

Silently thankful for the fact that the Aurors had taken out the broadcast cameras—the photographic cameras could be confiscated and censored more easily—Harry brought up his right hand at the ceiling and snapped his fingers once, to the great confusion of the female Auror, who was just now returning her attention to her prey.

Then, to everyone's surprise, a translucent dome appeared above the trio, apparently solid enough to withstand the falling chunks of concrete and deflect them away. Harry swore he heard a collective sigh of relief from the security detail, but over the constant gunfire, shouting, and miniature explosions, there was no real way to tell if he was just imagining things.

Regardless, the moment the chunks stopped falling, the woman returned her attention from the shield to Harry, only to find his right arm already outstretched and his fingers ready to snap.

"Come on," he goaded her with a scowl. "Just try me. With one snap, I could turn you into charcoal. Make a move and I _swear_ that's what I'll do."

The woman glared. "This isn't over, Potter," she hissed. "We know who you are now. The moment the Ministry hears about this, we _will_ come after you again."

Harry's scowl gave way to a calculating smirk. "Ah, but you see, unfortunately, you'll all be dead," he told her simply. "Yes, yes…it was truly tragic that this award ceremony, where you tried to press me for an interview, was suddenly attacked by the Spanish resistance, in which you were all caught in the crossfire and sadly died."

The way Harry had spoken, coolly and matter-of-factly, was truly chilling to hear. It was as though he was reciting the facts from a history book, rather than threatening the woman before him. He saw the woman twitch her wand.

"Apparation?" he asked amusedly. "Did you think I hadn't noticed that wards came up the moment you came in? Unless you bring them down, and that'll take enough time for me to burn you all to _ash_, you're not going anywhere."

To his horror, however, it was the woman's turn to smirk confidently.

"Shows what you know, Potter," she shot back, one hand quickly reaching into her robes. "_PORTUS!_" she yelled, before suddenly disappearing, just as Harry's frantic fire spell engulfed her now vacant position.

Across the room, the yell had been heard, and the remaining Aurors quickly did the same, vanishing into thin air after having reached into their robes.

The fighting was over.

Despite the fact that the Aurors had left empty handed and with two dead bodies to report, Harry couldn't help but feel that this was their win. He had been forced to reveal that he was indeed a wizard, and although he never truly confirmed he was Harry Potter, they would now have enough information to make the educated guess that he was.

"_DAMNIT!_" he raged as the fires from his spell dissipated and produced no charred body. He'd fucked up. Royally. Even if he earned the Prime Minister's gratitude for protecting him, Harry was now in the open with regards to the Ministry, and with him, his family. The only consolation, in his mind, was that the general public had not seen what had happened.

Unfortunately, Harry hadn't accounted for the newsmen at the back, whose cellular phones were hard at work in recording everything their fried cameras could not. Within a day, they would all be gleefully reporting back to their news stations with the greatest scoop of human history.

The existence of magic.

* * *

_Post-AN: Yes, the fight at the end was short, but it was meant to be. The Aurors weren't there for a full-fledged battle, but a criminal takedown-which obviously got botched. The fight's not the point, anyway, but rather what it represents._

_With this chapter, however, we end the "Upbringing" arc of "Emperor." From here on out, Harry will have to face the consequences of his reappearance and manipulate them in his favour in order to resume his rise to power._

_Also, if anyone's got a decent grasp on (at least) university-level economics, I'd be thankful if they could contact me so I can refine the whole economic angle discussed mid-chapter. I get the sinking feeling I'm very wrong there, so I'd like to pick someone's more capable mind to fix the arguments._

_As always, please review and leave your comments. They do help me with fixing errors and addressing reader concerns._

_Cheers,_

_- MB  
_


	4. Chapter III: Of Legalities and Authority

_A/N: Finally, after over a month of writing, rewriting, writing again, and then some more rewriting, Chapter 3 of Emperor is finally complete. Reasons for the delay, beyond those previously given, include: my graduation from university, moving back home, lack of inspiration, and falling ill due to a strange mix between the flu and a cold. My apologies to those of you who waited a ridiculous amount of time for this next installment. I'll try to get the next one done a little quicker._

_That being said, please note that I've added a new disclaimer (or rather just a cautionary note) that can be found near the top of my profile. I have posted it as an acknowledgment that my stories, being this AU and thematic, may sometimes come across as political pandering and propaganda, which is not my intent.  
_

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* * *

Liverpool, United Kingdom, March 29****th****, 2010 (D-Day +427)…**

Elicia opened the door with a curious look on her face, wondering who on earth would be knocking at her door around 8 o'clock in the evening—especially given that she'd only just gotten back from London. To her surprise, two people stood on her doorstep, one of whom had shockingly bright pink hair, making Elicia's lips quiver slightly as she restrained a full blown smile at the eccentric woman's appearance. Only the fact that they both wore police outfits and had a look of authority about them deterred her from showing such a facial expression.

"Can I help you?" she asked politely; no sense being rude, no matter how tired she was.

"Evening, ma'am," the woman greeted just as politely, her tone conveying the seriousness of her presence. "I'm Police Constable Tonks, and this here is my partner, Police Constable Longbottom; we'd like to ask you a few questions about a dangerous criminal currently on the run?"

Blinking owlishly at the fact that two policemen were coming to see _her_ about what sounded to be an escape convict, Elicia nonetheless nodded and opened the door a little wider, letting the two apparent policemen into her home.

"Who exactly are you here about, Ms. Tonks?" she asked as the two police officers made their way to her living room. She quickly noticed that the male one, Longbottom she'd been told, was canvassing her apartment, as though he suspected her of hiding something.

The female police officer, on the other hand, seemed much more at ease and not quite as suspicious, settling for simply giving Elicia a polite smile and having a notepad out, pen ready at hand. "Ah, I never did quite say, did I?" Tonks noted apologetically. "The man we're looking for is called Francis White, ma'am. Have you heard of him?"

It took every ounce of self-control for Elicia not to immediately freak out and thus give herself away. Francis, or Harry as he had revealed himself to her, was no criminal, and she knew it. That meant that the only people who would ever think of him as one would be those he and his family were running from—the Ministry of Magic.

"I _knew_ a Francis White, yes," she answered carefully. "He and I attended Liverpool College when we were children."

She noted that Tonks seemed to write everything she was saying down, while the male policeman kept a steady stare on her—probably trying to see if she had any visual tells that would indicate she was lying. Thankfully, she was not—in the strictest sense of the word.

"Other people we've investigated seem to believe you and he had a relationship, Ms. Eisenheim?" inquired Tonks.

Elicia decided not to fib about that either. "We did. However, we broke up shortly after graduation," she clarified, allowing a small amount of genuine bitterness enter her tone. "We had…differences over our career paths and their consequences."

"Could you please clarify?" requested Tonks, suddenly very interested. Elicia noted that the other policeman seemed equally insistent.

"He wanted to join the Army, I tried to dissuade him," she explained simply, as though it were completely self-evident. "Lots of potential, he had—some of the best grades in recent Liverpool College history, in fact. Could've done anything in the world, but chose to become a professional murderer. I couldn't be around him after he made that choice. Not with a clear conscience."

The two police officers visibly deflated, as though they'd been expecting quite a different response. Nonetheless, Elicia noted that the male one kept a steady, suspicious look on her.

"I don't believe I understand what all this has to do with Francis being a criminal, however," she then pointed out innocently. "I mean, that was all in the past, and quite personal."

The two police officers exchanged a look before the woman spoke up once again. "Sorry, ma'am; just needed a bit of clarification as to his movements and motivations prior to his criminal acts. Gives us a better idea of his M.O., you understand."

Elicia nodded, giving the two police officers the acknowledgement they were no doubt seeking from her. She didn't want to think what they would do to her if she insisted they explain the reasoning behind their questions, being mages and all. Hell, she was pretty certain that if she called the Merseyside Police Authority, neither of them would show up on an official roster.

"One last question, then," the male officer spoke up then, surprising the two women. Apparently, the Tonks woman hadn't expected her junior partner to speak up at all. The subsequent glare confirmed this suspicion of Elicia's. "Have you been in contact with White at all since graduation?"

Elicia had a bad feeling that if she tried to lie about this, they would know. Something about that intense look the male officer was giving her was screaming at her not to lie. "I…have, yes," she admitted, and both officers perked up. "Well, but only before the war broke out," she hastily amended.

"Explain, please?" requested Tonks gently, obviously disagreeing with her partner's gruffer methods.

"Francis and I…what we had was quite intense," Elicia explained, blushing slightly at the fond memories. "So our breakup…it really tore each other up. We tried to keep in touch after graduation, and for the most part succeeded."

"…but?" insisted the male police officer, ignoring the reproachful look from his superior. Elicia began to wonder whether or not the authority dynamic between the two even truly existed.

"We got to talking one day, and it quickly became apparent that our differences were just too great to merely ignore or overcome," she stated. "We quickly realized we'd be one of those truly unhappy couples that stayed together mostly out of convenience and past memories rather than actual compatibility, so we parted ways for good. Sex, as I'm sure you know, can only heal so many rifts," she threw the last part in just to see the flushed faces of both supposed police officers, who did not disappoint. "Anyway, since then, I haven't seen Francis at all."

"Yes, well…" the male one stuttered out.

"What my _oh-so-eloquent_ partner is _probably_ trying to say is that he's sorry we've taken so much of your time, Ms. Eisenheim," the woman quickly spoke over him, at the same time reaching into her vest pocket and retrieving a calling card that she handed over to Elicia. "Please call us if you hear from White—his capture is of the utmost importance to public safety," she requested.

Elicia rather doubted that, but said nothing as she took the card and nodded. This was the right thing to do, apparently, as the woman smiled brightly at her. "Thank you for your time, then, Ms. Eisenheim," she thanked her politely. "We'll be getting out of your hair now. Longbottom, come," she snapped at her partner, obviously quite irritated with his performance.

The man flinched slightly at the reprimanding tone, which made Elicia feel a little warm and fuzzy inside, and quickly came to his partner's side as the two made their way out of the house. Elicia saw them off and exchanged polite goodbyes before closing her door, locking it, and then sliding down the frame to the floor. She let out a deep breath of relief, confident that neither "officer" had seen through her act. It helped that she had not, technically, lied to them. After all, the man she was seeing and was in love with now was not Francis White, but rather Harry Potter.

"Oh, Harry," she muttered to herself, her head in her hands. "What have you gotten yourself into this time?"

She practically jumped when the phone then suddenly rang, her nerves still on end from the harrowing visit from the police. Sure, she'd been the picture of calm during the interview, but that didn't say a damn thing about how worried she was for her lover's safety.

Quickly scrambling to her feet, she went for the phone and picked up the receiver, hoping to hear from Harry. She was immediately disappointed.

"Sirius?" she asked, surprised. What were the odds that two mages would visit her home _and_ Sirius would call that same day? "Yes, I'm fine. I just got back from London. What? You're coming over as well? What happened?"

She waited quietly as she listened to Sirius explain what had happened in London and quickly made the connection between the police officers and the events described by Sirius. While she had guessed the two were mages, it had never really clicked in her mind as to why they would be seeking her out, or why they were asking for Francis White and not Harry Potter. "Sirius, I know. I think I got visited by two of them just now," she winced as she heard him shout in surprise.

"No, I did not tell them where he was!" she snapped right back upon hearing him ask that. "Who were they? Umm…a woman called Tonks and a man called Longbottom. What do you mean, Aurors? What the hell is that?" she demanded. "Special police? Wait, what do you mean, does my head hurt? Why would it…?"

Elicia blanched when she heard Sirius' explanation. "_Mind reading?_" she had to truly restrain herself from shrieking. "Sirius, I don't know where you are, but you better get your arse down here _right this minute!_" she demanded. "I want an explanation!...thirty minutes? Alright, then. See you then—and it better be a good explanation, Sirius!" she warned before putting down the receiver.

Once again, she felt weak in the legs as the weight of the revealed facts bore down on her. This time, however, she had the presence of mind to get to a chair sit down on it rather than go for the floor.

* * *

**Santander, Spain, April 2****nd****, 2010 (D-Day +432)…**

Harry always knew that eventually his apparent good luck would run out. It wasn't as though he'd planned out his entire life on the idea of his luck holding strong from beginning to end, but he'd been hoping—nay, _praying_—that it would hold out just long enough to get himself inextricably settled in the popular mindset as a hero before it would run out. That way, he had the people to fall back on, and they would keep lifting him up for his good deeds.

Of course, Murphy's Law demanded that things go awry for once, and it simply chose one of the _worst_ moments of all to have his cover blown.

It wasn't the war he was worried about—no, if anything, that would work in his favour. After all, who _wouldn't_ want a super-powered soldier running around the battlefield, causing massive destruction on the enemy forces? No, what worried Harry was the fact that the entire thing, as he was now informed, had been caught on camera—_phone_ cameras, of all things—and been transmitted essentially worldwide. The media had apparently decided to keep their footage a secret from both 10 Downing and the military, fearing (rightfully) government censorship of the captured images. Coupled with the Internet, there was now _no way_ to clamp down on the leaked footage.

Which brought Harry to his current problem.

While the Prime Minister had been thankful for Harry's intervention—as it had probably saved the man's life—he had nonetheless been forced to place Harry under arrest due to pressure from Parliament and his own cabinet, in a desperate attempt at some measure of damage control. Harry imagined that the Minister of Magic probably had a lot to do with raising the shit-storm necessary for the PM to arrest him, too.

Regardless, it made Harry worried that his arrest would inevitably lead to his handing over to the Ministry of Magic. Now, ordinary offenders of the Statute of Secrecy typically got fined, with Azkaban sentences only ever happening if the breach was sufficiently severe to warrant imprisonment in hell on earth. For him, however, he imagined the Minister would easily pass legislation to have him executed for his consistent breach of the Statute. Hell, he wouldn't be surprised if the International Confederation of Wizards itself was clamouring for his head. After all, he _had_ single-handedly brought down everything they'd worked for in the past three centuries or so.

Despite all these obstacles before him, however, Harry was comforted to know he had allies as well. The military, for one, refused to treat him as a criminal, since his use of magic in the battlefield had come about mainly out of their orders. Furthermore, the soldiers themselves who had served with him or seen his power had rallied behind him as a saviour of British lives. The rest were thankfully neutral, with very few actually being hostile to the revelation of his magical powers. Those that _were_ hostile were kept away from his holding cell, lest anything untoward should happen.

That was a new thing for Harry, too—his cell. Long used to the military tents, however, he wasn't as concerned by the limited space, though he did find it dreadfully boring. Only a cot, a loo, and a washbasin adorned his cell, and all of it well within view of the cell door, which didn't help his embarrassment whenever nature called. Thankfully, the guards outside would oblige him whenever he needed to use the loo and looked away.

That wasn't to say that he had nothing to do, of course. Every day since his incarceration, Josefina would come visit with news from his regiment and letters from supporters. The letters were, for the most part, rather generic. "You make us proud," "Thank you," "You're a credit to patriots everywhere," etc…

No, what interested Harry the most from these visits were the news Josefina brought with her regarding events back in the United Kingdom. Specifically, anything related to Sirius, William, John, and Elicia—his main core of supporters and loved ones in the UK.

Hearing the heavy metal door down the corridor open, Harry perked up from his place lying on the cot. Was it already visiting hours? Raising his legs, he shot them forward and used the momentum to sit up on the bed, being unable to do with his hands, as they were currently being held in a rather primitive stock-like contraption that, from the feel of it, was of mage construction. What tipped him off? The complete incapability he was currently experiencing in drawing his magic.

"White, you've got a visitor!" he heard one of the guards down the hallway bark out. Rather unnecessary, of course, as there were no other inmates at this particular complex. Hell, it couldn't even be considered a complex—it was a bombed out _school_, for goodness' sake. The cell, the door, the ass-backwards cuffs? All conjured by reluctant mages from the Ministry at the orders of the Prime Minister; who, word had it, was rather…displeased at the actions of the Aurors at the award ceremony.

Sighing in relief at the end of this particular stretch of boredom, Harry smiled over towards the cell door. "Well, it's about damn time, Josi—" he cut himself off as he saw the person at the cell door. It was not Josefina.

"We meet again, Potter."

Harry narrowed his eyes at the woman standing before his cell door. She was the Auror he'd duelled on the stage at the ceremony. By default, that made her the woman who had ruined all his carefully designed plans. What on earth was she doing here? Had the Prime Minister caved in and handed him over? No…Harry quickly scratched that possibility off the list; there were other Aurors around, nor any member of the Military Police or even the Ministry of Defence to formally hand him over. This was, insanely enough, a social call, by all appearances.

"So we do," he answered guardedly. "Though I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I don't know yours."

The redheaded woman stared him down as though he were a disgusting insect. It didn't surprise him—he _did_ kill two of her colleagues before her very eyes, after all. "…Weasley," she eventually grated out. "Auror Captain Ginny Weasley."

Harry nodded in recognition. He knew very well what family she spoke of—Sirius often mentioned them whenever they talked. "Weasley. I've heard the name," he told her as much. "Rather renowned family, aren't you?"

The woman sniffed. "Deservedly so," she replied.

Harry couldn't help but nod. She _was_ right, after all. "Oh, I agree," he concurred. "Your brother is also an Auror, is he not? Word has it, he helped take down the Carrow siblings."

The Auror's eyes narrowed. "I'm intrigued as to how you would know that information, Mr. Potter," she said dangerously.

Harry smirked right back, got to his feet, and walked towards the cell door, stopping just a foot off of the door. "I get the newspaper delivered," he lied outright, and he knew she knew he did just by the way her shoulder suddenly twitched. "Honestly, though, is it true he actually _cheated_ on the Head of Litigation Affairs?" he asked meanly. "I mean, how stupid does one get? Cheating on a _lawyer_ of all people?"

The flush spread across the pretty redhead's face told him he'd hit a sour point. "That's none of your business, Potter!" she snapped.

Harry chuckled. "I rather disagree," he replied easily. "It helps to know what I can use against my opponents, as I'm _sure_ the Minister would want the very best attorney in his pay to litigate against me."

The redhead tried to grab at him through the cell bars but had her hand stopped by the magical field between each bar. It was a safety measure to ensure neither spell nor physical object could go through to either aid or harm the prisoner or guard. "Leave Hermione out of this!" she snapped.

Harry grinned and raised an eyebrow. "Hermione is it?" he practically purred. "I see, I see…the Auror responsible for my arrest and the head litigator are friends…or, from that protectiveness, should I say, best of friends?" he observed with an amused smile. "How amusing. I'll have to keep that in mind."

With that said, he turned from the cell bars and went towards his cot, once again sitting down on the rough mattress. "So, my amusement aside, what are you doing here, Auror Captain Weasley?" he asked, having said her title as mockingly as he could muster. "I mean, I know some girls love to visit criminals to get their jollies off, but you don't strike me as the type," he commented as he looked her up and down. "Though, if I'm wrong, I wouldn't mind a conjugal visit."

The blush that appeared on the woman's face made the comment worth if for Harry. Typically, he wouldn't have debased himself with making such…unbecoming statements, but he wasn't about to let go of an opportunity to raise his opponent's hackles.

"Pig!" she hissed at him, stepping away from the bars disgustedly. He chuckled in amusement. "For your information, I'm here to see what kind of man I failed to bring in," she told him. "I'm…disappointed," she said with a taunting smile.

Harry raised an eyebrow. Taunting him back? If it weren't for the fact that they were on opposing sides and would undoubtedly happily gut him at a moment's notice, he had no doubts he would've grown to like this woman. "Oh? I seem to remember taking you and your chums to school on that stage," he shot back with a smug smirk. "Quite slow for Aurors, weren't they?"

The woman seemed to realize that he was actively baiting her now and, to his disappointment, did not rise to the bait. "Why are you using magic against Muggles?" she asked, suddenly switching the topic and adopting a far more professional attitude.

Harry raised an eyebrow at the non-sequitur but decided to indulge her. "Damn. Ruin my fun, why don't you?" he pouted before shrugging. "I was ordered to," he replied simply. "Isn't that what soldiers do?"

The woman glared at him. "And the thousands of victims who died from your spells?" she demanded.

Harry shrugged. "Unfortunate, but necessary. The thousands of lives I took? I saved as many or more in British lives. A fair trade-off, given that as a Briton, I should be concerned about my people's lives, not the enemy's."

"And the civilians among those you murdered?" she snapped. "What lives would they have taken?"

Harry glared at her, no longer amused by her self-righteousness. Standing up, he walked over to within a foot of the cell door and stared her down. "Do not preach to _me_ about morality, _girl_," he hissed venomously. "Have _you_ fought in this war? Have _you_ seen the depths of human madness like we have? Did _you_ have to watch as fellow soldiers went up in flames whenever some crazed madman decided to use a homemade pipe bomb to blow himself and his family up for his insane masters?"

He watched the woman cringe a little from his verbal attack and felt some measure of satisfaction from it. "I thought not," he said with a satisfied nod. "Worse you have to deal with? Dark curses, hundreds of death, and then the bastard gets taken down. Me? I deal in the _thousands_, girly. I snap my fingers? Entire _blocks_ go up in flames. And for every block I incinerate? Thousands of my men are saved," he lectured her. "So if you're asking me, do I sleep well knowing what I've done? Damned straight I do."

Well, _that_ was a bold-faced lie, but he wasn't about to tell her that.

The woman tried to keep up a glare, but apparently didn't have the heart for it as she settled for a disgruntled expression and crossing her arms over her chest. "You know, for a Potter, you sure as hell don't sound like one," she observed.

Harry snorted. "'Sound like a Potter?' What the hell is that supposed to mean? Did we have a particular way of talking we copyrighted that I wasn't told of?" he mocked.

She intensified her glare towards him. "Don't be a berk," she snapped. "I'm talking about the Potters who supposedly took down Voldemort!"

"Oh, him?" Harry said with a shrug. "Tosser got ambushed by my parents. That's about it."

The woman looked at him disbelievingly. "_What?_"

"They laid a trap for him," he clarified. "You know, set things up so he'd be taken down by surprise? I really can't explain the concept much more simply than that."

"I know what an ambush is, you idiot!" she snapped. "I meant what's this drivel about James and Lily Potter taking down the most powerful Dark Lord in modern history by ambushing him?"

Harry made a big show of realizing what she meant, then ruined the whole thing by shrugging casually. "Dad set up a lightning rune as a standing countermeasure. You know, one of those meant for nonlethal take-downs of groups of people? Turns out, though, the Dark Wanker himself decided to take mum, dad, and me down by himself; so when mum finally rejoined the fight, they activated the rune and lit him up like a Christmas tree. That's when we found out the delightfully lethal effects of a mass take-down rune on a single individual."

The woman's lower jaw had dropped an inch at his story. "But…_runes?_" she asked disbelievingly. "That's…so…_backwards!_"

Harry shrugged. "If you don't expect it, you won't look for it," he summed up plainly. "Kinda like how you all seem to have missed the fact that I was gallivanting around England for the better part of ten years before coming here and lighting up the Spanish countryside. Great detective work there, Miss Auror Captain. Real bang-up job."

The woman kept up her glare. "We had other pressing issues to deal with," she riposted acidly. "Contrary to what you seem to believe, the Auror Office's world does _not_ revolve around you, Potter."

Harry nodded with a knowing smirk. "No, it doesn't, does it?" he mused. "Probably has something to do with that rash of terrorist activities that's been hitting the Ministry, eh?"

The woman's eyes narrowed. "Your information is scarily accurate, Potter, and technically confidential," she noted. "I would _love_ to know who your sources are."

He shrugged, confident that she wouldn't find a damn thing. "Like I said, I get the newspaper."

Silence descended between the two as the redheaded woman kept her unforgiving stare on him, while he shrugged it off and stared at the blank wall on the other side of his cell, amusing himself by thinking up of other ways to annoy her.

She broke the silence first, however. "Why are you doing this?"

Harry played dumb. "Doing what?" he asked, looking bored.

"Gallivanting around, showing off your magic for everyone to see!" she clarified heatedly.

Harry shrugged. "I'm bored," he deadpanned, obviously lying.

She glared. "If you're not going to tell me, then just say so!"

He shrugged again. He seemed to be doing that quite a lot these days. "Okay, I won't tell you," he indulged her with a bored look.

She glared some more, though she did finally back down after a minute of trying to mentally will him to tell her his reasoning. "Fine," she conceded grudgingly. "Doesn't matter. Either way, you'll be spilling your guts out to the world, once we get you on trial."

Harry looked indecently interested. "Oh? I'm getting a trial?" he asked with insincere relief. "I thought I might simply be getting tossed into Azkaban; you know, like you did with _my godfather_."

"Those were different times," the woman argued.

Harry scoffed openly. "And that's all you have to justify it?" he sneered. "Different times? No reason? No logic? Just the excuse of differing perspectives of a time no more than a couple of decades ago?"

The woman's stare hardened. "You make us sound like barbarians," she noted coldly. "But what of you? You use your magic—your innate gifts—to torch human beings incapable of defending themselves from it!"

Harry shrugged. "Back to that, are we?" he asked with a nasty smile. "Still trying to fish for a reason for my actions? Give up, little Auror," he said with a sneer. "My reasons are my own."

"You've fallen quite low for a man born into such a prominent family," she stated with obvious certainty. It was clear to Harry that she was planning on ending their conversation soon enough, but he refused to let her get the last word in.

"This?" he mocked. "This is but a hiccup. I will rise again," he promised with such certainty in his tone that made the woman visibly shiver. "And when I do, I swear to you, I will change the world forever."

The two once again descended into a tense silence as they matched stares. One, jade green and unfaltering. The other, chocolate brown and full of resolution, albeit marred with confusion.

For a moment, the woman seemed about ready to go for her wand, maybe as an act of futile authority over the man behind the bars who shook her so, or perhaps more as a gesture of self-assurance; as if she were trying to comfort herself that she was armed and he was not. It wasn't as comforting as she'd wished it was.

Harry broke the silence first, looking away from her and towards the door down the hall. "Guard, the young miss is done here, I think!" he shouted, turning his attention back to the redhead as he heard the hallway door clang as the locks were released. "Got what you wanted from this little chat, Miss Auror Captain?" he asked, the title once again rolling off his tongue with a mocking tone.

The redhead looked at the man before her and couldn't help but feel crushing disappointment as she attempted to reconcile the dishevelled, uniformed man with the fairy-tale version she'd been described to by her father when she was a child. In the bedtime stories, Harry Potter was an icon of the Light, as were his parents—all presumed deceased, of course. This man, on the other hand, was the real deal, and all she could glean from him had not been positive to his image.

Certainly, he was powerful and well spoken; he was even handsome—she could admit that much. However, hidden just beneath that superficial perfection, she could tell he was ruthless, driven, ambitious, and unbearably indifferent towards morality. He would, she believed with fierce certainty, willingly sacrifice _anything_ he had to achieve his goals—which were unfortunately still quite shrouded in mystery.

It was disappointing, and not a little tragic.

Harry, for his part, had a completely different perspective on the whole exchange. Through his little chat, he had now acquired at least three names he would pass on to Sirius for enhanced surveillance: Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger, and Ron Weasley. He wasn't particularly worried about the third, however—all he really wanted from that surveillance was additional dirt he could use against the first and second persons. From the Weasley woman's reaction, he could tell that her brother's betrayal of her close friend had stung deeply, and he wanted as much as possible to capitalize on that if he _did_ see the inside of a courtroom and she was his opponent.

Of course, there was always the possibility that they would now appoint a different prosecutor against him, given that he had revealed his knowledge of her personal life woes. He doubted it, though; the wizards had little enough legal experts as it was to match him in wits, and if that had not been obvious before, the redhead's report would drive that home. They would need their best against him, and they knew it. Thus, even with his knowledge of her intimate affairs, Harry knew that they would appoint the Granger woman to see him declared Guilty.

Harry gave a grim smile as he sat on his cot. Not that such a verdict would ever happen, of course. All he really needed was an opportunity to get out of his current imprisonment—something legitimate, however. Certainly, he could probably convince enough people to help him expedite a jailbreak, but that would do little good for his image in the short run—and he _needed_ an unassailable reputation in the short run. He was at his peak right now, and he wasn't about to allow what happened to Dumbledore happen to him. He would not wither away in some school, jumping at every shadow that reminded him of his skills.

No, he would use them as best he could, for the greater good of his family, and his people.

All he needed was an opportunity.

And a plan.

* * *

**Liverpool, United Kingdom, April 7****th****, 2010 (D-Day +437)…**

It was not, upon reflection, the first time Elicia had seen Sirius so flustered.

Well, that wasn't quite the word for it. Sirius was beyond flustered at this point; rather, he seemed more on the edge of total panic. To be fair, however, she shared his anxiety almost to the same level, though she was remarkably more capable of restraining herself. Maybe it came with knowing Harry as well she did, or her unshakeable faith in her not-boyfriend. Whatever it was, however, it allowed her to take the news that Harry was now in a jail cell much better than Sirius had.

"This is a disaster!" Sirius kept ranting as he paced the living room of their safe house.

William, for his part, seemed unmoved by the older man's panic—something that intrigued Elicia quite a bit, considering this was the man's _brother_ Sirius was talking about.

"It is _not_ a disaster, Sirius," William calmly countered. "Merely a setback. One we can overcome."

"How do you figure?" asked the weary voice of John as he stepped into view, having come down the stairs from having tucked in his pregnant—and very distressed—fiancée. "Sorry, Will, but I really can't see how this could possibly get any worse."

Silently, Elicia made a prayer to Murphy, instinctively countering that obvious provocation towards fate's harsher side. It was something she'd picked up after a few times trying to experiment with the fuel crystals.

William, however, neither noticed her lack of attention, nor seemed fazed by the overwhelming pessimism permeating the room. "Harry is in jail, I acknowledge this and its unfortunate repercussions on our lives," he conceded. "However, we all know my brother. Even jailed, he will undoubtedly not be without a plan of some sort to turn this situation around. What we have to do now is not panic, but regroup," he told them sternly. "We are not, after all, without our own resources. Once the mages vacate Liverpool, we can begin our work again."

Elicia and John, however, were woefully uninformed. Harry had probably thought it a way to keep them from the most dangerous parts of his plan, but that consideration was now rearing its head at a most inconvenient time.

"What resources?" asked Elicia, interested.

"Mages, mostly," Sirius said without second thought. He knew his godson trusted the two magic-less individuals with his life and that of his family, so he felt little compunctions to hold anything back. "Maybe a hundred or so under the family's command."

John blinked. "What, you mean like sleeper agents?" he asked, trying to make sense of this new information.

William shook his head. "We have a couple of spies, but no sleeper agents," he corrected. "But no, what Sirius meant is we have about a hundred _active_ mages waiting for orders in Europe."

"That's…not a lot," Elicia commented dully.

Sirius snorted. "If you'd seen what Harry can do by himself, you wouldn't say that," he commented amusedly. "A hundred mages could together, with the appropriate training, level a city in one go."

John paled. "And these mages have had this training?" he asked softly, horror clear in his voice.

William nodded mechanically. His dark chocolate eyes were trained on his brother's two closest, non-familial loved ones. It wasn't that he didn't trust them—if his brother did, then so did he, and he had the additional bonus of having grown up around them. Rather, it was that he was questioning how long their dedication to his brother's plans would run. Elicia, he suspected would follow his brother to the very ends of time, if need be. John, however, had much to lose from his involvement, and one of those things was sleeping upstairs, carrying the man's first child.

He frowned a little, though no one else in the room perceived the facial shift. This was one of those moments where William lamented the fact that he simply could not understand the emotional value that people placed in relationships and the like. Had he been born without empathy, he constantly wondered, to warrant his utter lack of understanding regarding human emotional relations? His own dedication to his brother was not out of filial love—in fact, there were times when he questioned his own ability to feel any such thing—but rather out of logical understanding of the benefits and drawbacks of the achievement of his brother's vision. He understood and, on a rational level, completely agreed.

There were advantages to his inability to feel empathy, however. Whenever a situation such as this arose, he was always the one with the cool head. His brother always knew to go to him if he needed clear-headed advice, free of emotional bias. That served to console him, somewhat.

"When the military brass found out about Harry, he made a compromise with them," William explained. "He would become their first ever military mage in exchange for their silence about his real identity. However, we all knew that it would be a matter of time before the brass demanded for more, so Harry asked Sirius to smuggle out any discontented mage out of Britain and the surrounding countries to our private training camps."

"And they all agreed to become soldiers?" asked Elicia dubiously. Certainly, a couple here and there among the exiles, she could understand—but each one until they numbered a hundred? Those were fairly skewed statistics.

William shook his head once. "No, of course not; just a few. The vast majority decline the offer for military training and instead work as either ambassadors to other countries, offering other discontented mages the same opportunity they had, or go back to work as moles for us. Very, _very_ few ever outright demand total independence; those, we Obliviate of any knowledge of us and release into the wild. Keeps the Aurors busy, and our own identities safe."

"How many do we have?" asked John, and William's eyes tightened imperceptibly as he noted the man's use of a collective pronoun, indicating some form of tacit agreement to stay on with the plan. "Of these military mages, I mean."

"A little over two hundred, though only one hundred are field ready." William answered levelly. "Weeded out for the past decade or so, and trained for the past five. There's a good dozen of them on Harry's level of wandless magic, but most of them are wand users."

John nodded thoughtfully, allowing Elicia to delve in next. "What's the plan, then?" she asked, simultaneously anxious and curious. "How do we go from here?"

"We cannot spring my brother out from jail, if that's what you're hoping," William stated flatly. "I suspect that even if we were to try, he would not accede to the plan."

"Why not?" asked John, somewhat perplexed.

"Image," Sirius took over for William, knowing of the youth's difficulty with tact. "More specifically, his public image. If he escapes, it's a tacit admission of guilt. If he stays and fights out the sentence procedurally, he shows himself confident of his moral and ethical righteousness."

"This isn't the moment to be concerned about one's public image!" John protested heatedly. "We've all got our necks out on the chopper's block, right now! He _has_ to get out and fix this situation!"

"I disagree," William countered calmly. "This is the _exact_ moment to care about image. Sirius?" he nodded to the dark-haired older man, who nodded back and turned his grey eyes to the uninformed duo.

"Word from my contact, in whose home we are now staying, has it that the press in the magical world has gotten word of Harry's arrest, as well as more…sensitive materials regarding the Ministry's investigation of the Potters' disappearance," he relayed. "Apparently, it's set off quite the public relations nightmare for the Ministry, and there have been a great deal of Muggle baiting incidents and Anti-Muggle rioting occurring. Apparently, the magocentrists are putting the blame of Harry's supposed 'defection' to the Muggles on the Muggles themselves."

"What's that got to do with Harry's need for good public image, though?' asked John, not seeing where Sirius was going.

Elicia did, however. "I get it," she said immediately thereafter, tapping her open palm with a closed fist in a show of realization. "If Harry escapes jail, he gets accused of showing total disregard for the Muggle laws, and thus public opinion will _never_ fall his way, even if he later redeems himself. But if he stays in jail and acts like an indignant soldier getting jailed unfairly, he shows himself loyal and mindful of the rule of law, thereby rallying support for him!"

William nodded, silently pleased with his brother's choice of mate. Elicia had a good head on her shoulders, and William could not ask for more in the woman his brother chose. "Precisely," he confirmed.

"It's not that simple, though," Sirius cut in. "The public could just as easily get swayed to his side later on, if he proved his innocence on the run—fighting injustice goes a long way with the masses," he reminded the trio. "No, the main reason is that it also keeps the Ministry in check. As long as he's in official British custody, they can't touch him until he gets officially transferred to the authority of the Ministry of Magic."

William frowned; he hadn't thought of that. It made sense, however. "If that's true, then any legal delaying tactics we can pull would elongate the amount of time he's kept out of Ministry hands," he mused out loud. "That means more time to plan for a way to legally extract him from his current circumstances."

Sirius nodded in agreement as he poured himself a glass of scotch. "Already being done," he assured the group. "A few people in the Home Office and the Civil Service owe me a few favours, and I've called them in. His processing should be suitably mangled up in red tape for a while."

Elicia maintained a concerned look on her face, despite Sirius' assurances. "How long are we talking here?" she pressed. "A month? Half a year?"

Sirius shook his head. "They can delay, my dear, but only so much, under _normal_ circumstances. Under these circumstances? With the Ministry on top of the Home Office for Harry's transfer? We'll be lucky to get a week."

"That's not a lot of time," John observed grimly.

"Obviously so," William panned. "Meaning the more time we panic, the less of this very precious time we have to plan for Harry's extraction."

William was pleased to see that the group seemed suitably chastened by his reminder. Clasping his hands in front of him, he looked at each of the gathered people in the room and nodded at them. "Right then; let's get to work."

* * *

**Santander, Spain, April 14****th****, 2010 (D-Day +444)…**

"You must truly be some sort of glutton for punishment, Miss Weasley," Harry observed nonchalantly as he watched the redhead in question sit on a stool on the other side of his prison bars.

"How do you figure?" she asked right back.

"You keep coming here."

"Maybe I find you intriguing," she posed, but that was quickly shot down by Harry's head shaking.

"Animals in a zoo are intriguing," he countered simply. "The laws of physics are intriguing. Me? I suspect you keep coming here to see the prey you just weren't good enough to catch."

She glanced at the bars before her. "You seem caught enough."

His smile wasn't very nice. "Because my good friend the Prime Minister had to follow the law, not because you brought me in," he reminded her. "After all, I'd probably already be dead if you'd managed to catch me. Wizengamot isn't feeling too forgiving these days, I hear."

She leaned her chin onto a fist, using her other hand to tap her crossed thigh idly. "Yet more information you really shouldn't have access to, Mister Potter," she observed, obviously quite interested. "I would _kill_ to know who our leak is."

Harry raised his left hand and gave her the two-fingered salute from his bed as an answer.

Her answer to that was to smile cheekily. "In your dreams, Potter."

"Oh, believe me, you _do_ in my dreams," he replied quite smugly. "Most times, you even beg for more."

"Dreams _do_ tend to exaggerate," she panned. "I mean, the fact that you think you could even satisfy _a_ woman—let alone _me_—is already proof of that."

Harry chuckled. "Ouch," he replied good-naturedly. He was always fond of a good riposte. "So then, why _are_ you here, Miss Weasley?"

"I still want to know why you're here," she replied calmly. "Why you do what you do."

Harry snorted. "Those are questions I'd expect from the military psychiatrist, not a Dark Wizard catcher," he jibed.

"Most of my colleagues do think I'm off my rocker," she confirmed with a sly smile. "Seem to think that my coming to see you is a waste of time."

"You'll forgive me if I agree with them, then," Harry said wryly.

"Oh?" she mused archly. "Because I rather believe that if I can understand you, I can find you a way out of your current predicament."

Harry quickly got to a seating position on his cot, his eyes sharp and fixed on the redhead's face. "What?" he demanded.

Said woman smiled a little smugly. "I may have a way out for you," she said plainly. "However, it does have conditions."

Harry's expression was a mixture of interest and scepticism. "Who exactly is offering this to me?" he asked carefully.

"I am," she stated.

Harry openly scoffed. "Please, my dear; you may be an Auror Captain, but you don't have the clout nor the legal power to clear me of all charges," he reminded her. "Now, I ask again: _who_ is offering me this?"

The redheaded Auror looked at him for a moment before finally relenting. "Dumbledore," she ground out, clearly upset at having been called on her bluff successfully.

Harry's reply was immediate and decisive. "Not interested," he panned before returning to his prone position on his bed.

The woman blinked from the sudden answer, only processing Harry's response a few seconds after he'd given it. "What? Why?" she demanded, standing up.

"Dumbledore is a pacifist," Harry stated. "I hate pacifists. End of discussion."

"He's Supreme Mugwump!" she protested. "He could have all charges dismissed!"

"No he can't," he refuted. "Supreme Mugwump or not, he has to bow before public demand on this. The Minister wants me dead, the ICW wants me dead…hell, _most_ common wizards and witches want me dead. Clearing me of all charges would be political suicide."

Ginny blinked; clearly, she hadn't thought about that. "Then why would he tell me to offer this to you?" she asked, confused.

"A gimmick, most likely," he hypothesized, though he was quickly seeing an opportunity to incite some inter-Wizard discord. "However, I would expect that he's probably got a plan to break me out of jail and use me as some sort of icon. Hell, he might even try to 'rehabilitate' me," he added, using air quotes to show what he thought of that.

"Would that really be so bad?" she asked, leaning forward. "You could do a lot of good on our side." Her words sounded genuine enough, but Harry could see the doubt in her eyes grow a little.

"That's quite forgiving of you, Miss Weasley, considering I skewered two of your men not long ago," he noted with a raised eyebrow.

"Hating you won't bring them back," she stated tightly.

"Forgiving me is tacit approval," Harry shot back, enjoying the inner turmoil he was seeing in her gaze. "After all, if Dumbledore sprung me out, who's to say how many more of their kind I'd get away with killing? I'm a _very_ deadly man, after all."

"You'd be rehabilitated," she pointed out.

"People lie about changing their ways all the time," he riposted.

The two descended into silence once again, only interrupted when the sound of the heavy steel door being unbarred reached their ears. Ginny turned her eyes away from Harry for a second to glance at the opening door before looking back at him, looking somewhat regretful, and standing up.

"I guess visiting time's over," she said.

Harry waited for a moment before giving her a knowing smile. "I think visiting in _general_ is over," he corrected.

"Wha—?"

She was quickly interrupted by hurried footsteps that quickly cleared the distance between the door and the cell. Practically jostling Ginny aside was Josefina, looking a little harried, but none the worse for wear.

"They have a time," she stated simply.

Harry nodded calmly. "When?"

"Two days from now," Josefina informed him. "Heavy guard, airplane transport to Heathrow, from where they'll take you to the Ministry for custody turnover," she added, sounding greatly pained at the last part.

Harry looked over to the stunned redhead and gave her a smile. "You see?" he said. "Time, I'm afraid, is quite up."

As if to reinforce this point, two guards came up to the Auror and clasped hands on her shoulders, one of them politely, if forcefully, requesting her to leave the premises. Silently giving Harry another glance, she nodded and acquiesced their request, quietly seeing herself out, leaving Harry with the guards and Josefina.

Two days later, the travel from Spain to the UK began for Harry. Unfortunately for him, it was dreadfully dull. The entire time, he'd been in the horrible anti-Magic cuffs the Ministry had forged _especially_ for him, and his guards—typically friendly and sympathetic to his plight—had been replaced by either officious guards from Whitehall, or hostile wizards from the Ministry of Magic, who wanted to make absolutely _sure_ that he would _not_ escape during transit.

It was all really unnecessary, of course, considering that his ability to use magic was essentially reduced to nil from the damned cuffs. There was also the additional factor that he did not _want_ to break out.

The only positive of the trip—more or less—was that Auror Captain Ginny Weasley had been assigned to be his personal escort. Josefina, for her part, had been refused passage on the plane—due to her close personal allegiance to him—and would be following on another flight—ostensibly to be a character witness in the trial they kept saying he was going to get. Harry still doubted any such thing would happen.

But back to the redheaded Auror; she was currently sequestered at his side on a rather uncomfortable steel bench within the belly of the plane, with big, burly, angry looking men at either side. A single look from Ginny was enough to get them to stop glaring at Harry, however, which he appreciated enough to restrain himself from overtly mocking her and the guards.

The comfortable silence, unfortunately, was broken by said redhead.

"There have been disturbing reports about your transfer," she told him quietly, not even turning to look at him.

Harry debated whether or not to humour her as he remained in his relaxed sitting position, head leaning back against the plane hull. His curious side won out. "How so?" he asked.

"Some people I trust seem to think that the Death Eaters might be making a play for you when we get to London," she warned him seriously. Normally, this wouldn't warrant a single iota of attention from Harry, but the tone with which she delivered the warning told him that this was more than a supposition—it was a certainty.

"Do your colleagues know?" he asked simply.

"Of course they do," she replied dismissively.

"Then why tell me?" he followed up.

"Call it an act of human decency," she told him before descending into silence once again.

"I doubt your colleagues will appreciate giving me a heads-up," he observed quietly. "But thanks anyway."

"Doesn't mean I forgive you for Wilkins and Dawson, though," she stated forcefully.

Harry smiled to himself. "Wouldn't dream of it," he whispered back. Silently, though, he was almost gleeful that he'd gotten her out of the forgiving mindset. It would undoubtedly cause Dumbledore quite a few problems in the future.

* * *

**London, United Kingdom, That Same Day…**

From one bad cliché to another.

This was the opinion Harry had of the whole transit procedure destined to get him to the Ministry of Magic's offices in London. The airplane ride had been predictably dull and full of uncomfortable seats, hostile glares from the guards, and the occasional ribbing at their expense. Then, at the airport, he'd been frisked so much he had jibed about worrying about his virtue, causing one of the Wizard guards to move to strike him, only to be restrained by some of the Muggle guards. The worst part, in his opinion, was the fact that he was now being transported to the Ministry's offices in a large black police van. Considering the fact that it had a massive escort all around it, Harry was pretty sure the only way the transfer plan could be worse would have been if they had painted a massive bull's eye on it with his name at the centre.

Quite frankly, if those Death Eaters Ginny had told him about didn't manage to guess where he was, he was going to be quite disappointed. Especially since he was kind of counting on them.

Glancing to the side, he saw Ginny sitting rather stiffly in her seat.

"Nervous?" he asked mockingly.

"We're transferring one of the most dangerous and most detested criminals of the Wizarding World in plain daylight," she shot back. "Of _course_ I'm nervous!"

"Sorry, I'll try not to get caught next time," he promised.

She flashed him the two-finger salute in response, causing him to grin.

"Anytime, baby," he leered.

Whatever reply she had on her lips, however, was quickly cut off as the van suddenly jolted violently to the side, causing the redhead to hit her head on the glass window _hard_ and sprawling Harry on the seat.

Thankfully, the sudden move hadn't managed to knock him out, though it did leave him dazed. His hearing was crapping out, too, given the dulled out way he was hearing things. Slowly, though, he was recuperating his senses, and an attempt to check out the condition of the driver and the front guard told him the two had been killed by the crash. A glance at his side told him his personal escort was knocked out, at the very least, though she would undoubtedly die if she wasn't rushed to a hospital right away.

Unfortunately for her, however, Harry was more concerned with getting himself out of his current predicament. The van was, thankfully, not on its side or upside down. Instead, it had crashed violently against the brick wall of a nearby building, a little crushed but otherwise none the worse for wear.

Reaching for the door handle, he pulled numerous times to open the door and quickly found his expectations dashed as the regulation safety locks held firm, disallowing him from opening the rear doors from the inside. Normally, this would call for some technical improvisation—probably ending with him exiting the car with the door's mechanism fairly intact. This time, however, he had little time to waste.

Thus, lying on his back, head practically on Ginny's lap, he raised his legs, pulled them up to his chest, and then slammed his feet against the recalcitrant door with all his might. Predictably, his first attempt was a bust. His second, however, loosened it a bit, and his third finally broke the locks and forced the door open.

Almost immediately, a part of him wished he were back in the car, which despite the accident, was still nonetheless relatively safe from the situation outside.

As Ginny had informed him, the Death Eaters had indeed launched a raid on his caravan, undoubtedly aiming to end his life and claim the fame of ridding the Magical World of its worst offender of recent time for themselves and their cause. Thus, the sight Harry was privy to upon leaving the relative safety of the van was one of his Muggle and Wizard guards fighting the Death Eaters, who were currently in possession of the higher ground by way of rooftops. The entire street was essentially a killing ground at the moment,, and the sight of numerous bodies on the ground told him the situation was getting worse by the second.

Not that Harry could worry about the body count just yet, however. After all, he still had those damned cuffs on, and until they were off, he was essentially useless in this fight.

Which was the precise reason for which he immediately sought out the nearest guard, which turned out to be a Muggle Corporal who was cowering behind an overturned car.

Sliding into position next to the Corporal, Harry gave the young man a dazzling smile.

"Hi there!" he greeted the man joyfully, as though he was not part of the current fighting. "I'm Harry. I've got a problem, and I'm fairly sure you could help me. You see, I've got these pesky cuffs on," Harry raised his hands, which were still held down by the magical, wooden stocks. "And with them on, I can't use my magic; magic, by the by, that could save your life at the moment. So, how about you be a dear and let me out of these things?"

The frightened Corporal seemed to forget his fear for a moment as he watched Harry deliver the entire mini-speech with a completely straight face and a cheerful grin. The man's first instinct seemed to be ignore Harry, but something must have clicked in his mind, because when he turned back to face him, the Corporal's face had paled considerably and his rifle was now aimed at Harry's heart.

"You're that Potter guy we're supposed to escort!" he accused wildly.

Harry sighed, rolling his eyes. "Yes, I'm he," he confirmed. "Now that the obvious has been taken care of in this _wonderfully_ intellectual exchange, how about you let me out of these so I can help fry those masked sons of bitches?"

The man's head shook wildly in the negative. "You're evil!" he screamed, half in fright, half in an attempt at macho bravado. He even jutted his assault rifle in Harry's direction, poking the raven-haired man in the shoulder roughly in the process. "We're going to be taking you to get what's coming to you!"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Oh, for the love of…" he didn't finish his sentence, however, having caught a flash of green at the corner of his eye. Quickly, he threw himself onto the Corporal, managing to prevent the man from getting hit by a Killing Curse.

"Happy now!" Harry shouted down at him before rolling off and leaning against the overturned car in a seated position. "I'm not out to kill you, or any other normal person. I'm just a British soldier, like you," he insisted. "And as it stands, this fight isn't looking good. Now, I get that your job is to keep me from escaping, but guess what? I don't _want_ to escape."

The man looked at him blankly, still getting up from Harry's impromptu tackle. "You don't?"

Harry shook his head. "I want to help," he insisted. "Look, if the other mages could finish this situation quickly, they would have, right? That means they're losing control, and I can help our side regain that control," he pressed, raising his shackled hands. "Free my hands, and I promise I'll willingly put them back on when I'm done."

The Corporal looked at him uncertainly. "Why should I trust your word?" he demanded.

Harry shrugged. "Because otherwise, you'd be dead from that Killing Curse that I saved you from. If I didn't want to help you out, I'd have waited for the bastards to kill you and looted your body for the key."

Harry had to repress a sigh of relief as he saw (reluctant) concession in the soldier's eyes. Frankly, he'd been worried he would _have_ to allow the Death Eaters to kill the young man in order to get the damn key, but it seemed he'd gotten through.

Hesitantly, the Corporal dug out a dull, unassuming silver key from his pocket and held it up, his eyes on the cuffs. From the look in his eyes, Harry guessed he was having second thoughts, which was taking up precious time.

The man looked up to meet Harry's eyes. "Your word of honour you'll put them back on afterwards?" he asked, quite a lot of fear coming through his tone.

Harry nodded, lifting his antiquated cuffs up for easier key access. "My word of honour," he agreed.

The Corporal was silent for a moment before nodding and inserting the key into the keyhole and turning it, causing both men to hear a soft click ring out, just before the miniature stocks loosened up and, with a flick of his wrists, fell off of Harry's person. Almost instantly, he felt his magic pour through his body like a raging river, as though a great dam had been removed from its path. His neck muscles tensed up from the experience, causing him to look upward, his eyes scrunched shut from the indescribable experience.

Then, when it was over, he lowered his head and opened his eyes, feeling whole again with his magic once more at his beck and call. His eyes fell on the frightened Corporal, who looked like he was already regretting his decision.

"Thanks," was all Harry said before turning to face the more immediate problem of the rooftop Death Eaters.

"Remember your promise!" the soldier cried out suddenly.

Harry didn't even bother to look back. "Of course."

Then, lifting his right hand, he curled his hand as though to make a fist and got his fingers ready for a snap, their target a Death Eater raining death on soldiers at the foot of the building. He spared a glance at the Corporal behind him and saw the man looking away, cowering.

"Man up, Corporal," he reprimanded the man. "Don't look away when it gets tough. Look straight ahead and maybe you'll see something wonderful."

Then, without further warning, Harry snapped his fingers.

And the world lit on fire.

* * *

**Liverpool, United Kingdom, April 17****th****, 2010 (D-Day +447)…**

"Yes, I know the Ministry's up in arms, Clyde!" Sirius was shouting into the mouthpiece of his phone. "I don't rightly _care_ if there are protocols in place! _You_ _know_ _the deal!_ You hear something about Harry, you tell me, and in return, your family gets a supplemental wage so they never have to find out about that little problem of yours, or have you forgotten?"

Elicia winced at the man's heated voice; despite the fact that Sirius was actually moving _throughout_ the house, the sound level of his shouting seemed constant anywhere they were, no matter where _he_ was. "Isn't that kind of a low blow?" she asked William, whom she knew would probably be the most impartial person in the entire household.

William shrugged. "From one perspective, probably," he conceded. "However, the Ministry is keeping a tighter lid than usual on the information about what happened during the transit, so he's also a little frustrated about how little we know about Harry's current situation."

"What about 10 Downing Street?" she followed up, sighing in resignation as she watched William knock her Queen to its side, finally putting her in checkmate.

"For now, they seem to agree with the Ministry's stance of operational silence," William analyzed. "Though I doubt they are doing so out of voluntary decision-making. The Prime Minister probably wants Harry back on the battlefield as much as the military does," he mused. "Checkmate, by the way."

Elicia ignored the board in front of her—it was simply a way to pass the time in the safe house. "Why's that?"

"He's the most inexpensive super-weapon the government has, of course," William explained. "Think about it: all they pay him is a soldier's wage, and in return they get flattened city blocks. It's probably every military accountant's wet dream."

"Isn't that just exploitation?"

William gave her a neutral smile. "It would be, if my brother was locked in a vicious cycle of destruction for pay that he could not feasibly extricate himself from," he agreed. "However, if his seemingly exploitative service under the military was part of his original plan, leading in turn to greater, future profits…"

"…then it's not exploitation," Elicia finished for him, sighing in resignation as she conceded defeat in this argument. She would never understand how the Potter siblings seemed to be so…cold and calculating about life. Hell, she had been ambivalent towards most social functions when she was young, but at the very least she did some things for fun or because it gave her a sense of immediate accomplishment, not just because it would help her in the distant future.

"Oi, lads!" they heard John shout from the living room, where he'd nested himself on the couch and stuck to the television. "Get in here, quick!"

Almost immediately, the trio (even Sirius, who had apparently finished haranguing the man over the phone) went to the living room, finding John with his arm comfortingly around his pregnant fiancée's shoulders. "News from London," he told them the moment they entered his line of sight.

"…_and now, breaking news from the situation in London, where a fierce fire fight of till now unheard of proportions broke out yesterday between elements of the British Government, the recently revealed Ministry of Magic, and the terrorist cell now known as the Death Eaters…"_ the anchorman could be heard saying. "_According to our sources, reports coming out from the Metropolitan Police headquarters at New Scotland Yard indicate that the preliminary number of casualties in yesterday's tragic events could number about two dozen dead, with at least twenty wounded. Unfortunately, we have been unable to acquire any form of confirmation from the Commissioner himself, but our reporters have finally been allowed to move closer towards ground zero. Agatha Marshall is on the scene now; Agatha?_"

The group watched in silence as the image shifted from the BBC's news studio to what could have easily passed off as an image from the Anglo-Spanish War. While the devastation was not as thorough as it was on the Iberian Peninsula, the damage caused by magic and bullets alike were grimly obvious to anyone watching. Most, if not all of the convoy cars seemed broken beyond repair, with one seemingly buried halfway through a wall. A building near the closest destroyed vehicle had a good chunk of its rooftop blown apart, with the dangling limb of a presumed body hanging from the edge. Many more bodies—these covered by white tarps—littered the road behind the reporter, and if one looked carefully enough, one would be able to see the faces of horrified people looking from the building windows, where they had been confined to quarters under orders from the military police, which had secured the area.

At the forefront of the projected scene, of course, was the reporter from the BBC, looking pale and ill, undoubtedly from the stench of decay permeating from the grizzly scene behind her.

"_T-Thank you, David,_" she started off weakly, as though trying to restrain herself from vomiting. "_A-As you can see, the scene here on Hammersmith and Wolverton is ghastly to behold. Just yesterday, elements of the Royal Army, accompanied by a detachment of what we have been informed were Aurors, or Dark Wizard Catchers, from the Ministry of Magic were attacked by what Downing Street has publicly revealed to be a rogue mage terrorist cell, leading to the spectacular fire fight that has everyone in the near vicinity terrified._"

The scene shifted again to show more of the clean-up effort being conducted by the military. The yellow cordon keeping people out of the engagement area was quite visible, as were the military policemen who stood guard behind it. Behind _them_, Army medics were apparently being put to task as they sped from one body to another, jotting down notes at some, crying out for assistance at another, and some just putting a white tarp over the body. The scene then split, leaving half the television screen showing the BBC newsreader and half showing the on-site reporter.

"_Has any explanation been given for this attack?_" the anchorman asked.

"_Unfortunately not. All that has been released at this point is that the Ministry of Magic and the Royal Army had been transporting something very valuable when the attack happened,_" the reporter answered, still looking quite pale, but otherwise in full control of her stomach. "_Speculation exists, of course, that the thing in question was in actuality the man seen protecting the Prime Minister in Spain, one Harry Potter, also known as Lieutenant Colonel Francis White of the 75__th__ Regiment of Foot, deployed from Liverpool._"

As she spoke, a silenced video of the scene in question was played on the telly, interspaced with live commentary from both the reporter and the newsreader, making William grimace as he watched his brother blow his cover spectacularly.

"Didn't that girl of his tell us they blew the cameras?" asked John as he watched the scene unfold on the television screen. "How did they get this footage in the first place?"

William lifted a finger to point at the screen. "See how the footage is a grainy and shaking? That's a cell phone camera recording."

"Harry must've forgotten," mused Elicia.

"I don't blame him," Sirius said darkly, before pointing at a particular figure fighting against Harry. "See the redhead fighting him? That's Ginny Weasley, if I'm not mistaken. She's a damn good Auror, even if she isn't one of the Ministry's best. The fact that she was there to take him down means the Ministry wasn't screwing around."

"Why not send their best?" asked Ana, John's fiancée, worriedly.

"They've got other problems," was all Sirius offered up.

Their attention quickly returned to the newsreel as it returned to the news studio.

"_A tragedy to be sure,_" the newsreader was saying. "_Unfortunately, with little information coming from the government and the area soundly closed off to our reporters, we are at this time unable to offer up a full account of what exactly happened there last night. In other news, tensions are rising to dangerous heights in the Balkans, as Yugoslav troops move to quell mounting discontent of Albanian nationals in Kosovo on the eve of the twelfth anniversary of leading Albanian moderate Ibrahim Rugova's death at the hands of the Yugoslav government, which succeeded in temporarily…_"

Any further news was promptly shut off by William as he pressed down on the remote control, leaving the room in silence.

"So, nothing new…" John noted.

William shook his head, having adopted his usual thinking pose, his hands steepled in front of his face. "I disagree," he stated. "I rather think this has given me an idea as to how to get Harry out of trouble."

Sirius leaned forward from his chair, obviously interested, as did Elicia. "Do tell," Sirius urged.

"We're going to need your body double, Sirius," William told the older man. "Get him to book an interview with the BBC—I'll take care of providing the information he needs."

Sirius blinked. "What on earth for?" he asked dubiously. "Wouldn't it be suspicious if 'I' come to speak on this event? I'm already publicly linked to him as his uncle," Sirius reminded the younger man.

For the first time in quite some time, Elicia saw William smile. Granted, it wasn't a happy smile, but rather one displayed by people who come with a cunning plan.

"Trust me. Get him on the phone with the BBC and whoever else will listen to him, and tell him to tell _them_ that it's about Harry Potter."

Sirius stared at the young man uncertainly for a moment before giving in and nodding, simultaneously pulling out his cell phone and leaving the room to have some privacy. Back in the living room, John, Ana, and Elicia were left looking at William as though he'd lost his mind.

"Are we _supposed_ to be giving Harry _more_ limelight here?" asked John heatedly. "'Cause it seems to me, _nothing_ we say at this point could _possibly_ make him look good!"

"On the contrary," William disagreed. "This is a perfect opportunity to promote his image of a wronged, loyal citizen. Trust me on this—we'll come out of this crisis more powerful than ever."

Elicia looked at the young man she'd known since her teen years searchingly. "Are you sure this will work?" she asked, her voice wavering between seriousness and anxiety.

William met her eyes and nodded once, firmly. "It will."

Elicia was silent as she tried to interpret his eyes, willing him mentally to show some form of emotional assuredness that his plan would work. It was a lost cause, of course—William was about as readable as a piece of smooth, solid concrete. She would have to take his word on faith, it seemed.

* * *

**HMP Belmarsh, London, United Kingdom, April 19****th****, 2010 (D-Day +449)…**

Harry wondered how long he would wait.

Following the fight in central London, he had, as he had promised, put the cuffs back on in full view of the Corporal he'd convinced to set him free, and then allowed the authorities to move him into another car, which had brought him to his newest accommodation, the Category A prison of Belmarsh in Thamesmead.

Of course, given his unique status as both a highly dangerous mage and a extremely well trained soldier, he had not been placed with the general prison population, instead being relegated to solitary confinement as the authorities worked hurriedly to fix the public relations mess caused by the attack.

While he had no issues with being separated from the most dangerous individuals in the United Kingdom, Harry did have a problem with the absolutely dullness of being completely alone. At least in Spain, the Weasley woman had come to visit him—if only to annoy him or try to pry out information.

Idly, he wondered if she survived the crash against the wall.

As he did with most of the Magical World, Harry had little interest in the woman's wellbeing, seeing how she was an antagonistic force in his plans. In fact, rationally speaking, it would probably be in his best interests if she did perish, though he certainly wasn't about to go out of his way to pray for such a thing. While he held no anxiety for her wellbeing, he was also not so disparaging as to demand her immediate termination. Even adopting a neutral position would serve him, after all.

The truth was, he did have some respect for the woman. She was a skilled fighter, and for one reason or another, she had decided to keep him company during his incarceration in Spain, despite his murder of her two companions. He wondered if she'd been seeing either of the men, given her extreme reaction following their deaths. He doubted it, though—her attitude screamed 'by the book,' and that type of person usually held to that very strictly when it came to their love life.

His thoughts turned to the other women in his life then.

Elicia was, of course, first on his mind. How long had it been since he'd seen her? Over a year now, wasn't it? Had she changed much? Did she still love him as he loved her? How had her work with the fuel crystals progressed? There were other questions, of course, but those were mostly answered by Josefina's briefings while he was still in jail in Spain. Nonetheless, he held deep longing to see her, at the very least. If he was lucky, he might even get to stroke her hair, or even give her a kiss soon, if he dared to dream.

As it was, however, he was resigned to waiting until Sirius and William—the two people he trusted most with his wellbeing—got him out of this situation.

The next woman on his mind was his little sister, Isabella. Last he had heard of her—from Josefina, no less—was that she and her parents had gone underground in Canada. She had even applied for a leave of absence at her university, which saddened Harry a great deal, since he put a lot of stock in a good, higher-level education. Her most recent photograph remained with him, though, and he kept it in his untidy uniform, which they had yet to confiscate from him—probably as a result of all the chaos from the attack.

Last among the women in his life, and yet never least, was his mother. He wondered how she and his dad were coping with the situation. While they had indeed funded quite a bit of his projects, he had always gotten the impression that the means he employed to reach his goals did not sit well with them. He could understand that—they were both children who had grown up in the middle of a rather violent civil war within the magical community; in fact, they had even escaped said community to avoid ever having to deal with the violence and corruption that their world had become synonymous with. Yet, here he was, their eldest son, deliberately baiting the Ministry of Magic into a position where civil war was increasingly becoming a very real possibility.

Was he being filially impious? Was he shaming them with every step he took towards punishing those he believed righteously deserved punishment? After all, it had been their suffering that had put him on his current path. Who knows what kind of person he would have been, had the Magical World decided not to pursue his family across Europe? Perhaps he would have been a soldier, as he is now, or even a policeman. Perhaps he would have been a teacher, or even just a professional athlete. He smiled ironically at the latter. While he did enjoy playing some sports, he wasn't much for betting his livelihood on his ability to kick a ball or running around.

Harry sighed as he opened his eyes to gaze at his bare cell. This was exactly why he hated being secluded away from other people—his mind wandered too much, generally not along paths he wanted it to.

It annoyed him, of course, that they had even bothered to seclude him. Had he not proven to the authorities that he had no desire to escape? He would've thought that clearing the area of the Death Eaters—which was no small feat, considering he wasn't used to fighting other wizards—would've bought him some good faith.

_Clang_.

Harry looked up as he heard the door down the hallway open up, the telltale sound of the steel bolts receding into the heavy door alerting him to the presence of other people. He didn't have to wait long for the sound of shoes hitting concrete to get replaced by visible people at his cell door. Three men. All guards.

"Morning, lads," Harry greeted with an easy smile. "Is it breakfast time already?"

One of the guards raised an eyebrow, while the other two remained stony-faced.

"Colonel White, your presence is requested at Visiting Room number fifteen," one of the stony-faced men informed him.

Now it was Harry's turn to raise an eyebrow. Two things got his interest immediately—the use of his fake name and official military rank, and the fact that he had a visitor. Considering that he was not expecting Elicia, Sirius, William, John, his parents, or sister to come visit him—or that the government would allow such a thing—that meant that whoever had managed to arrange this meeting had some decent leverage. He was quite curious as to who that would be.

Getting to his feet, he nodded at the guards and stood in the middle of the cell as the guards relayed the order to open the cell door via portable microphone. As per protocol, he was frisked by one of the guards while the other two watched, hands on their deployable batons in case he got…excitable. An unnecessary display of authority, of course, given his unwillingness to start anything with the guards, and so he allowed the process to happen without incident.

After going through the safety procedures, the guards escorted Harry down the prison's hallways until they reached the visiting room in question, usually set aside for convicts to talk to their lawyers. Given that Harry had no legal representative accredited within the magical community, however, he was rather certain he wouldn't be talking legal strategy in the room.

Indeed, as he stepped into the room, his suspicions were immediately confirmed as his first view of the room revealed to him a rather well dressed gentleman sitting in the chair opposite his. The man's fine tailored suit, coupled with the pocket watch Harry spotted in the man's waistcoat and the fine leather shoes, told him that whoever this was, he was quite wealthy, and thus probably quite important. He was also, Harry guessed, several decades older than him, judging from the greying hair and the few wrinkles on the man's long, high-cheekbone face.

"Ah, welcome, Colonel White, welcome!" the man officiously greeted him, his tone suggesting they had known each other for years, even though Harry had no idea who this was. The man waved him to the empty chair on the other side of the table. "Please, have a seat!"

Harry glanced at the guards flanking him for a moment, which the man seemed to catch, judging by his shooing motion towards them.

"Leave us, leave us!" he ordered. "I'm quite certain the good Colonel here wishes me no harm!"

The least emotionally stunted guard looked uncertain at the order. "But…sir…we have orders…"

Whatever amiability the wealthy man had expressed was instantly gone, replaced by a narrow-eyed, sinister glare. "Unless you want to end up on the dole in the next five _seconds_, _leave us!_" he barked.

The guards jumped at the sudden burst of anger but quickly rallied and left the man with their charge, obviously rethinking who the bigger threat to them was at the moment. To Harry's amusement and interest, the man's amiability seemed to return just as quickly as it left.

Taking his seat, Harry looked at the man curiously. "I should thank you," he started, courteously nodding his head in thanks to the man. "Life in that little cell of mine was getting awfully dull without human contact."

The man waved away the thanks with a smile. "Oh, think nothing of it," he replied. "Though I would have thought your opening statement would have been a demand for my name, seeing as how I seem to know yours."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "I _had_ considered doing so," he informed the man. "But I then concluded courtesy came first."

The man nodded, still smiling. Harry wondered if the man had gone through special training to manage keeping the smile so…consistent. "Well, that is reassuring," the man said while beaming at Harry. "Given your unusual background, I was wondering whether or not common courtesy protocols had been taught to you."

Harry didn't need further explanation to understand what he meant by unusual background. "Mages are still people, sir," he replied politely. "My parents were quite insistent that I learn proper manners; as, I suspect other magical parents are."

The man nodded quickly, his hands up in a soothing gesture. "Yes, yes, of course!" he said quickly. "Forgive me if I made any offense! We just don't know so much about your kind…"

It was Harry's turn to shrug away an action. "That's understandable," he conceded. "But, as you mentioned previously, I don't yet know who you are, or more importantly, why you wanted to see _me_."

Now the man broke out into a huge smile. To Harry's consternation, it seemed entirely genuine, too.

"Ah, yes, of course!" he said, standing up and offering his left hand. "Forgive me, I forgot entirely. I am Joshua Bygate, Baron Warwick, currently a member of the House of Lords."

Harry was now completely stumped. Why on earth would a noble, much less a member of the House of Lords, come to see him? He would have thought that, with the public backlash towards the reveal of magic, no sane member of government would ever go _near_ him until the situation had calmed down.

Slowly, he regained his focus and stood to awkwardly shake the man's hand, given his currently cuffed state. "Harry Potter," he introduced himself. "Or Lieutenant Colonel Francis White, Military Mage, as you seem to know me."

The man smiled charmingly. "Ah, excuse me. I actually know your real identity as well," he informed Harry. "It's just, I can't help but feel that Francis White has a more…distinguished sound to it than Harry Potter, don't you?"

Harry wisely chose not to comment, as defending his parents' decision might offend his guest—whom he still knew nothing about. Instead, he focused on a more important question. "Honoured though I feel that you've come all this way to meet me, why _are_ you here, milord?"

His visitor waved away the term. "Please, call me Joshua," he insisted. "I reserve the use of niceties for whenever someone has me in an unhappy mood." He watched Harry nod in acceptance and smiled brightly. "As for my reasons being here, why…I let's just say I wish to offer you the opportunity to have an inside man in the House of Lords. As far as I'm aware, your sole contact in the British government is in fact Michael White, your alleged uncle?"

Harry was instantly on guard, uncertain at the moment whether or not the man was trying to bait him to reveal Sirius' identity. It took him a few seconds of observation to conclude that the man's inquiry was perfectly genuine…or at least seemed so.

"…Correct," he confirmed.

To Harry's immense relief, there was no follow up to that link. Instead, the nobleman smiled widely with a triumphant expression. "Excellent! Then you understand, Colonel, that any further allies you can acquire at this stage would prove invaluable, no?"

Harry was hard pressed to disagree. There wasn't a single thing the man had said that was wrong, thus far. "You are…quite correct, mi—Joshua," he corrected himself at the last second. "However, I cannot help but be curious at the fact that you would ally yourself with a criminal such as myself."

Joshua smiled, but not the same way he'd been doing thus far. This smile was more predatory, as though he was privy to some cunning plan no one else was.

"You are behind the news, it seems, Colonel," he noted before gesturing towards something or someone behind Harry's back and then returning his attention back to the dark haired young man before him. "Just yesterday, your uncle, it would seem, managed to secure prime time exclusive interviews with the BBC, ITV, and other major news networks and delivered a most impassioned plea in favour of your release. The opinion polls this morning seem to show a massive swing in your favour."

Just then, the door opened and a man carrying a small, square-ish device walked in, placing it silently before Harry and then, with a short tap on the side, opened it up to reveal a small television screen, while a DVD was clearly visible in the middle, already ready to play.

"Please, observe for yourself," the Lord Warwick suggested, apparently signalling the aide to begin the recorded transmission.

Instantly, the screen came alive and the scene Harry was treated to was that of Sirius, or rather his double he hoped, sitting before Jeremy Paxman, one of the BBC's most renowned political commentators and interviewers.

"_So let me get this straight, you are not, in fact, a blood relation of former Lieutenant Colonel Francis White, also known as Harry Potter?_" Paxman was asking Sirius, who shook his head.

"_Unfortunately not,_" Sirius confirmed. "_Rather, I adopted young Francis into my household when he was young, as a favour to his parents, who could not be there for him._"

"_And yet, there are reports of the Potters being an incredibly wealthy family within this…Magical community,_" Paxman pointed out.

"_Wealthy? Certainly, but incapable of raising him in his native England, on the run as they were from the shameful persecution of the Ministry of Magic,_" Sirius reminded Paxman. "_That wasn't a life they wanted for him, and I, naturally, understood that, so I offered them a way out._"

"_By adopting their son and taking him away from them?_" came the sarcastic question.

Sirius laughed away the insolence. "_Of course not. By providing him the safe haven of an alternate identity. You can't possibly deny the absurd lengths that the Ministry seems to have gone to in order to retrieve my ward, Jeremy. By taking on my name, it ensured he would not be harassed by the Ministry during his development._"

Harry couldn't help but smile at the way Sirius (or was that his double?) was weaving such an incredible story. It wasn't completely bollocks, but the order had been reversed. It was actually _Sirius_ who had taken on the White name second, not Harry.

"_Charitable indeed,_" Paxman noted with a tight smile. "_But tell us, what do you get out of this? However altruistic your actions may be, surely there was some motive for taking on this youth from a family that, by your own admission, you knew only professionally._"

Sirius smiled. "_Engaging as ever, Jeremy. You're right, of course; I did earn something from the bargain,_" he conceded. "_Young Francis himself. Trust me, if you ever met my adopted nephew, you would marvel at the mind he possesses. He is my finest advisor, and my most trusted confidante._"

A plausible statement, if again mixed up in the roles. Harry didn't even notice the fascinated expression he'd developed as he watched the video, which was in turn scrutinized by his visitor.

"_All very interesting, to be sure, but back to the topic at hand; I've been told that you've asked for a chance to vouch for your nephew, who is, at this moment, held in government custody. Could you please elaborate?_"

Sirius was still all smiles. Harry wondered if he, or his double, ever helped facial cramps from all the smiling done in front of the cameras. "_Of course! Quite simply, it is my opinion that my nephew is being illegally detained, since he has committed no crimes._"

Paxman looked entirely befuddled by this statement. "_How could you possibly make that argument?_" he asked bewilderedly, for once taken off guard. "_According to the details released by the Ministry of Magic, your nephew is in transgression of __**at least**__ twenty different laws!_"

"_Whose laws, Jeremy?_" challenged Sirius. "_The Ministry's laws? Or the laws of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland? Because I think you'll find there's a great deal of difference between the two codes._"

"_I…would suppose the Ministry's laws, as he __**is**__ a citizen of that…_"

Sirius struck right then. "_Is he?_" he challenged again. "_Since when? Due to what paperwork? Even in our normal world, Jeremy, citizenship isn't automatic—there are forms to fill out._ _I can honestly tell you, Jeremy, that __**I**__ have certainly __**not**__ signed any documentation making my nephew a citizen of the mage community. My nephew, for his part, has consistently made clear to me his absolute abhorrence for the society that all but forced his parents into fleeing the country, so I really don't see him filling out the paperwork either." _

Paxman blinked at this new information, and even through the television, Harry could discern the predatory gleam that had just appeared in the reporter's eyes. "_So you are in fact saying that the Ministry has no jurisdiction over this matter?_" he wanted direct confirmation.

Sirius nodded firmly. "_Correct, Jeremy,_" he answered. "_As my nephew is a citizen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and most certainly __**not**__ a citizen of the mage community, the Ministry of Magic's laws should not have any sway in regulating his dealings._"

"_Isn't that just a license for other mages to free themselves from the reins of senior magic users and do whatever they want, however?_" Paxman countered.

Sirius shrugged. "_It is a loophole, I agree, and probably one they should fix. However, that being said, even if they did amend their citizenship laws, any attempts at making it retroactive would, at this time, be both futile in containing the revelation of magic to the world, as well as appearing as simply an act of spite against my nephew by a humiliated Ministry._"

Harry could've sworn he saw a grin forming on Paxman's face before it was just as quickly restrained into a tight smile. Harry couldn't blame the man; Sirius was just _laying_ _on_ the ammunition for future grilling of Ministry officials. He blinked perplexedly when the image went dark at that moment, and looked up to see his visitor smiling.

"That's all we recorded of the show, I'm afraid," he apologized. "I could have the BBC send you a copy of the full thing, if you'd like."

Harry nodded silently and leaned back to contemplate what he'd just seen. It didn't take him long to connect the dots.

"So, if I'm to understand this correctly, you wish to make an ally out of me while the political fallout from this apparent legal fiasco is still raging, thereby profiting from the association?" he posed. He could sense the baron's aide bristling, but whatever the man was about to say was cut off by the baron's laughter.

"Bright _and_ blunt!" noted Joshua with an approving grin. "Well, you've certainly hit the nail on the head there, my young friend. So? How about it?" he asked, leaning forward onto the table and putting forward an offering hand. "I'm not soothsayer, boy, but I _can_ tell when a blessed opportunity comes my way. Frankly, I'm tired of the pseudo-political life of the House of Lords and just from this little chat, I can see you're my best shot out of it and up the ladder. In turn, I help your uncle get the legislatures on your side, and even help finance the whole deal."

Harry didn't let up with the suspicion, however. "That's quite a lot you're offering, milord, especially with so little coming your own way…why the charity?"

"There's something in the air, my young friend," the baron said with a knowing smile. "It smells of change…and change is bloody and often unforgiving to those in its way. Let's just say I want to be on the right side of the battlefield when it comes."

This time Harry did give up his suspicions. That statement alone had proved to Harry of the man's genuineness, as no politician would openly declare their willingness to jump ship at any coming shift in political favour, and yet this man had carelessly laid it out in the open—something that they both knew could destroy the lordly politician if it ever were to come to light, as no one would ever trust him again.

Harry extended his arms and clasped the baron's offered hand with one of his own, smiling. "I believe we have can have an understanding, Joshua."

The baron smiled toothily. "To a long and prosperous relationship, then, Colonel."

* * *

**London, United Kingdom, May 8****th****, 2010 (D-Day +467)…**

Harry had truly underestimated the benefits of having Lord Warwick on his side.

About a week had gone by since his meeting with the strange aristocrat, and already he'd been bailed out of jail by a combination of passionate rhetoric in both Houses of Parliament by Sirius and Joshua, and a massive propaganda blitz redeeming Harry's image. As it was, the courts had been…persuaded by public opinion and the Houses of Parliament to allow Harry to remain under house arrest until his legal standing was finally figured out.

A feat that, by the way, had been made utterly complicated by Sirius' revelation that Harry had never, technically, been made a citizen of the magical community, as James and Lily were both living in hiding by the time Harry was born and had then fled the country shortly after the attack. Harry's parents had even sent Sirius a legal affidavit to that end, making it even harder for the Ministry to demand turning Harry over to magical custody.

It was, in a sense, truly awe-inspiring the amount of red tape two dedicated politicians could summon to wreck their opponents' plans. Even the Ministry-supporters in Parliament—notably, people who seemed either fearful of magic and wanted it gone from their immediate lives or respected it to the point of dedicated loyalty—were having a hard time finding the legal grounding for which to keep Harry under lock and key.

It had gotten worse, naturally, when Sirius then leaked the news that the Ministry and the ICW wanted him executed for his crimes. As the death penalty had long since been abolished in the UK, the public backlash had been considerable, and the Prime Minister was being given more and more reason to have Harry released with every passing day.

The biggest reason of all was, of course, Spain. Since his departure from the battlefield, the 2nd Army's success rate had diminished slightly, albeit not significantly. While the Army could do without Harry in the field, it was quickly becoming obvious to many that his presence had saved a great deal of lives, as the death toll of the 2nd Army had risen considerably since his departure. Even now, military commanders could be heard making public appeals to the government to release Harry back to his duty so that "British lives could be saved from an unnecessary death."

There was an easy solution to that, of course—Harry could just hand over the military mages that he had ordered trained in secret. The problem was, he couldn't do so without risking the military deciding to withdraw its vocal support with the arrival of suitable replacements for him. It was heartless, yes, and it was causing many a death in the ranks, but Harry was not about to allow himself to be abandoned by a necessary ally.

Which was why he was having this meeting with the military brass at his loft in central London. Understandably, he was still under heavy guard, but the barbarically backwards anti-magical cuffs had been taken away.

"You're saying you can provide more of you?" asked one of the generals present, a blatantly greedy expression on his face.

"Well, they won't be as proficient as I am in magic that would be useful to the military, but I can promise that they'll be trained enough that all they'll need is the experience, sir," Harry drawled casually, having steepled his hands before him. "The thing is, and I'm sure you understand, sir, I can't train anyone while under house arrest."

"And you have no one you trust that can do so in your stead?" asked another general suspiciously.

"Like myself, they are probably wanted by the Ministry, sir," Harry reminded the older man respectfully. "As such, I cannot, in good conscience, ask them to come out in the open."

The Minister for Defence, a wiry, sickly-pale looking fellow—ironically enough, considering the men he was technically in charge of—nodded at Harry's statement; he personally suspected that the Minister was more of a politician than a capable minister, and so was, like Joshua had, fishing for a rapprochement with Harry, given his rising (positive) fame among the public.

"Understandable, yes," the Minister agreed. "Such a pity that the Ministry won't let up on their demands."

Harry nodded, making a big show of looking disappointed and solemn. "Indeed so…having these mages trained for our country's security had been a private desire of mine for some time now, and yet it was only recently that I came into the funds necessary to finance such a project," he lied smoothly. "Unfortunately, with the Ministry now seeking my imprisonment, I fear such a project would never come to fruition."

"Why not do it ourselves?" asked one general, looking at Harry suspiciously. "We could set aside some of the budget for such a mage training initiative."

Harry shrugged—he had already considered that proposal. "You are welcome to try, sir, but if I may be so bold, you would probably fail."

"Why's that, Potter?" asked the same general dangerously.

"Mages naturally distrust non-mages," Harry replied simply. "We are too different, too removed from their society that they cannot help but feel anxiety when they see the awesome and powerful technology we wield with ease. They feel threatened in their superiority, and so they clamp down on their tolerance and become unwilling to accept us as their equals."

"You don't include yourself with them," noted one of the more even-tempered generals. "Do you truly feel no attachment to the mage community?"

Harry shook his head firmly. "Respectfully, sir, what do I owe them? Nothing. They have harassed my family, harassed me, and now intervened in a major national security issue just to retrieve me for breaking laws that, as my uncle pointed out, have no bearing on me."

"That hasn't been confirmed, one way or the other," the mildly hostile general pointed out through gritted teeth.

Harry shrugged. "Perhaps not yet, but my uncle spoke the truth, and my parents have laid their credibility on the line in their affidavit that they never made me a citizen of the magical community," he riposted casually.

The hostile general fell silent, but Harry could still sense that the man wasn't quite ready to give up on the argument. Fortunately, he was disallowed to do so by the intervention of the more level-headed in the group.

"Assuming we agree to employ these military mages," the even-tempered general mused out loud. No one bought the rhetorical aspect of the question—it was clear that everyone, save perhaps the hostile general, wanted the military mages in the UK's arsenal. "…what are your terms?"

Harry played innocent. "Terms, sir? I am still a soldier, am I not? Were I capable of going to the training field, you could just order me to train them, sir, and I would."

It was perhaps the subtlest way that Harry could get his desire through to the group. The Minister for Defence, of course, got it immediately, while the generals needed a few more seconds to see through the innocent façade.

The hostile general, naturally, seemed ready to explode with outrage, but was quickly silenced by his colleagues, who each shot him a dangerous look that got him to shut up. The even-tempered general, rising to his feet, nodded at Harry and saluted, which Harry reciprocated once he got to his feet as well.

"I shall look forward to seeing you on the training fields, then, Lieutenant Colonel," the general stated ceremoniously. "A fine soldier like yourself will undoubtedly be found innocent of these so-called criminal charges."

Harry nodded once, firmly. "Thank you, sir, for your faith in me."

No such thing had been said, nor did any such thing probably exist, but as the military men departed the guarded loft, Harry knew that they had reached a positive understanding. Now, all he had to do was sit back and watch as the Ministry of Magic's tenuous hold on him collapsed even further.

* * *

**London, United Kingdom, May 10****th****, 2010 (D-Day +469)….**

It was beautiful to watch, in Harry's opinion.

Sitting before the television, still guarded by quite a few SAS servicemen who had strict orders to kill him if he tried to flee the premises, Harry watched as the Parliamentary session, which would see him a free man, convened.

There was, of course, quite a bit of debate on other matters before they even reached his case, which had been brought up, much to his surprise, not by Sirius but by some coalition backbencher. Rather than use a bill, however, Sirius, Joshua, and his supporters had gone straight for a motion, knowing that trying to free Harry via a bill would take precious time during which their opponents to vilify him. As they were riding on a high of public approval, however, Sirius—with some probable prodding from William, Harry had no doubt—had pushed for the motion instead.

Before his very eyes, Harry watched as opponent after opponent to Sirius' motion to reject Ministry authority over his case was beset by mass booing's in the House of Commons. He watched as Sirius and other supporters—almost all of which Harry didn't even know by _name_—rallied behind him and pressed for Harry's release.

It was quite clear to anyone who watched that the vote, when it would come, was firmly in favour of Harry's release. Between Sirius and Joshua, the two men had managed to rally an astounding amount of support for Harry, which he credited to the Lord Warwick's cunning mind for propaganda and Sirius' natural charisma.

The SAS guards, too, seemed riveted by the debates carrying on in the House of Commons. More than once, Harry spied a few of them using wireless radios to keep themselves informed—undoubtedly so they could be the first ones to know what was to become of their charge. Not out of concern for his personal welfare—they were far too well trained to allow themselves to make a connection with their prisoner—but probably rather to know whether they would be getting reassigned elsewhere by the end of the day.

Harry's attention returned to the television, and he smirked as he watched and heard Sirius shatter an opponent's arguments, always sticking to his guns regarding the Ministry's limits of authority. To Sirius' credits, he kept his temper—allegedly legendary in his youthful days—firmly in check, even as their opponents tried to goad him into anger by alleging that his entire interest lay within the financial benefits that Harry's continued livelihood with him was undoubtedly bringing him from the Potters.

The debate took more time than one would have imagined would be allotted to a procedural motion, but eventually it did come to voting. Almost ominously, the Speaker of the House demanded silence from the raucous room and then ordered that those in favour make themselves known, causing a good 2/3 of the room's MPs rise to their feet, while the defeated opposing MPs remained sitting, quietly seething.

When the Speaker asked for those against to stand, Harry knew it was more of a matter of procedure than actual doubt—Harry had firmly won this battle with the Ministry, and he had no doubts that they would know just how big a loss this was to them. By setting Harry free, the motion essentially legitimized (albeit tacitly) the existence of military mages, giving other mages within the Wizarding community the choice to leave the Ministry's rule.

To Harry's credit, he did not jump or dance, or do anything remotely embarrassing as the Speaker declared the motion passed. Instead, he just sat there, a cup of scotch in one hand, and smiled knowingly at the television. Sometimes, victory was not best celebrated by enthusiasm, but by simply knowing that the opposition had been defeated soundly.

He was not surprised, however, when later that day the Ministry sent an official statement to the news networks declaring that they would refuse to recognize the House of Common's motion, insisting that it was well within its rights to demand the turnover of any rogue element of its community, as well as rejecting any claims that Harry was in fact not a Wizarding citizen. They then finished their statement with the promise that, one way or another, Harry would be made to be accountable for his crimes.

Sure enough, the Ministry's vow did not go over well with the populace, whose return polls from the newspapers that day seemed to indicate majority outrage towards the Ministry's recalcitrance. The House of Commons _and_ the House of Lords also issued counter-statements, both condemning the Ministry for its refusal to bow to parliamentary authority. The Ministry, rather than responding, remained silent, and Harry had a feeling that this was just the prelude to something much worse.

* * *

**London, United Kingdom, May 21****st****, 2010 (D-Day +480)…**

Harry hated being right sometimes.

As he'd thought, the Ministry had indeed not backed down from its position that Harry was legally theirs to deal with, despite the mass popular and parliamentary support Harry had garnered. As a point of further defiance to the Ministry, the Muggle press even made a point of always referring to Harry as "Lieutenant Colonel Francis White, Military Mage," openly touting his continued loyalty to the government and not to them.

Predictably, after a few days of that happening, riots began to break out in London, mostly caused by wizards and witches who demanded that Harry be turned over for trial. The problem was that while protests were indeed a legal method of distributing their message, rioting was not, and so the police were more often than not found coming to blows with several of the more impetuous magic users.

The fact that these rioters used their magic liberally was particularly disturbing, however. While Harry had informed the police authorities that riot shields would be able to withstand most of what the average wizard and witch could throw, it didn't help sooth many a riot policeman's nerves as they watched the magic users make a mess of the streets of London.

The first riot had been eight days ago, on May 13th.

Now, as a result of the constant battling between the beleaguered and intimidated police force and the rioting wizards, Harry had been called to his new commanding officer's office at the Ministry of Defence.

To his surprise, the Minister for Defence was also present, sitting calmly in a lounge chair by the officer's desk, teacup and platter in hand.

"Ah, Colonel White, welcome," greeted Colonel Livingston, his new CO. Given that he had essentially promised to train more Military Mages, Harry assumed the brass had simply decided it easier to simply create a new regiment just for them. The 1st Mage Regiment, they would be called. Unimaginative, but self-explanatory, Harry supposed.

"Sir, reporting in as ordered!" he barked out as he went rigid and saluted his superior officer.

"At ease, White," Livingston replied easily, notably _not_ motioning towards a chair. Clearly, this meeting was expected to end rather quickly. "I presume you know of the difficulties the police have been having in containing the mage riots?"

Harry nodded firmly. "Of course, sir. It's all over the news."

The Minister sighed at his response. "Quite unfortunate, that," he lamented as he placed his teacup and platter on the stand next to his seat. "It hasn't served to buoy public confidence."

The colonel nodded at the Minister's remarks, a neutral expression settling on his face as he then proceeded to look at Harry. "I've been told you're a smart man, White; please, what do _you_ think will result if we do not contain the riots quickly?"

Harry thought the question through for a moment, not wishing to risk an erroneous gut response that might put off his superiors. "I…would expect a backlash from the general public," he hypothesized. "Maybe not in one go, but gradually, the general public would take the fight right back to the mages, which would in turn escalate the hostilities until outright violence is _all_ the interaction the two sides have with each other."

The Minister and colonel exchanged a glance before the colonel nodded at Harry and the Minister settled for looking out the nearby window.

"Correct. That is our assumption as well," he informed Harry. "Obviously, we cannot allow that to happen, and yet unfortunately, our police force has simply no training in containing mages on a rampage."

It wasn't that hard to see where the colonel was going with this. "You wish for me to deal with the riots myself, then, sir?" he pre-empted the colonel, who didn't seem at all surprised that Harry had understood the government's intentions.

"This is a damn shame," the Minister said, not turning to face the two. "But the fact is, we cannot allow the mages to continue with their rioting. It damage the government's credibility with every passing day, and we refuse to allow this obvious lack of respect for the government go unpunished. They are a _ministry_, _not_ a country!"

Harry looked at the two men—one facing him, the other not—and silently mulled the situation. This was certainly one major way of erasing any further doubts as to his loyalties, and it would be a good way to measure himself against wizards in actual magical combat.

"I assume I will have backup?" he asked.

The colonel snorted. "Of course. We don't expect you to be able to take them all on by yourself. We'll have a company assigned to you for crowd control," he reassured his subordinate.

Harry nodded, hearing the Minister sigh in his chair.

"It's shameful that we've been brought to this point, where the military must be brought it to put down a riot, but we're out of options and out of time," he said miserably. "The Prime Minister has already given the nod for the operation, as has the Crown. The government is one hundred percent behind you, Colonel White."

Harry afforded himself a glance at the Minister, who had turned his head back to back the colonel, and Harry could see that the decision to mobilize army units to put down a riot wasn't sitting well with the man. Hell, it was probably not sitting well for most of the government, who probably feared the legitimization of using military force to put down civil riots.

Sweeping his eyes back to his superior, Harry gave a nod and saluted rigidly. "It will be done, sir."

The colonel nodded back, returning the salute. "Good. From what we can tell, the wizards begin their marches around 7:00 AM sharp, but always at a random location so we have little time to prepare. Be outside the MOD gates at 6:00 AM tomorrow morning and we'll have your support waiting for you. Once you get the location of the riot, you are to mobilize there and disperse it through any means necessary."

"Any means, sir?" Harry questioned.

The Minister blanched and grimaced, but did not protest to the colonel's order, which surprised Harry. Had the situation truly reached that point already? He'd misjudged how close they were to the edge.

"We have continuously sought to offer the Ministry a chance to back down peacefully, as legally they are in the wrong," the colonel told him firmly. "Their chances are now gone. The Prime Minister, and most importantly, the _people_ want these riots gone. This isn't a crowd of innocent civilians, Lieutenant Colonel, but a violent mob. This is not Bloody Sunday, but self-defence. So yes, White, _any means necessary._ Understood?"

Harry was silent for a moment before nodding. "Yes, sir."

"Very good. Good luck tomorrow, White. Dismissed."

* * *

**London, United Kingdom, May 22****nd****, 2010 (D-Day +481)….**

Harry felt conflicted over what he was about to do.

Objectively, he knew that this was a perfect opportunity to solidify his support base in the general population, most of which were outraged by the blatant disregard for the laws of the realm by the mages. Furthermore, it would showcase the versatility of a military mage, thus potentially making him an even more valuable commodity to the government. Lastly, it would probably get the Ministry to reconsider its position and back off, which would allow his loved ones to come out of hiding.

The problem was, he wasn't thrilled at being all but ordered to unleash the military might of the nation on a bunch of rioters. As a student of history, Harry knew that such actions mostly ended in a public relations disaster. Nonetheless, Harry reminded himself that those situations and this one were different. There would be no unarmed civilians in this protest. There would be no peaceful demonstrations, only violent rioting. The law was on the government's side, for once, as were the general masses.

So, all things considered, Harry was doing the right thing…right?

Ethical conflicts aside, he had shown up at the MOD half an hour early, wanting to be the first there. There, he sat on the steps of the MOD's front door, settling in for the wait. It didn't take long, thankfully. Within fifteen minutes of his wait, he heard the sound of multiple car engines approaching and, looking down the street, saw the convoy of Land Rover Wolfs coming towards him. Curious to see whom they'd assigned to him, he waited until they got nearer before getting up and walking to the edge of the sidewalk.

Enjoying the slight breeze caused by the passing first car, he watched as the convoy came to a stop and its occupants exited the vehicles. Harry immediately recognized the uniform as being that of the Royal Irish Rangers and felt darkly amused. Was this a way of referencing to the British Army's own failed past at crowd control?

Either way, he was about ready to give them an order to fall in when he watched them do so without prompting. Pleased with the show of proper discipline, he looked around for the commanding officer when the man stepped forward from the line of soldiers and approached him, giving the necessary salute in greeting.

"Captain Liam Doherty," he introduced himself. "Irish Rangers, 1st Battalion, B Company."

Harry returned the salute and smiled at the older man. "Lieutenant Colonel Harry Potter, Mage Regiment," he replied. "Your men ready for today, Captain?"

"Ready and waiting, sir," the captain confirmed with a nod. "Any word on the location of the riot yet, sir?"

Harry shook his head. "The Met is on the lookout and have orders to call it in the moment the mages appear," he informed his new subordinate. "Until then, we're to stay here and wait, understood?"

"Yes, sir!"

Harry nodded, pleased. "Very good. In the meantime, however, I want to go over the proper procedure for this kind of situation with you and your men, Captain."

"Sir?" asked the captain, somewhat confused.

"These are not normal rioters we are dealing with, captain, but mages," Harry reminded the Irishman. "The normal rules of engagement are not applicable in this case. To that end, I want to brief everyone on how best to take down a mage. Understood?"

"Perfectly, sir," Captain Doherty confirmed before turning to face his troops. "Company, fall in around the CO and I for immediate briefing!" he barked.

The order was repeated by the officers beneath him as they marshalled the rangers into a semi-circular pattern around their captain and Harry, who had taken a place by the side of one of the Land Rovers. Once they were gathered appropriately, Harry began the briefing.

"The first thing you have to understand about the common mage is that magic is everything to them," he informed the group. "They use so often for any particular task that it is essentially another appendage of their body. Take that magic from them, and they're helpless. The problem, however, is that there is no way of doing this by secondary means, meaning no anti-magic machines, and no anti-magic bullets."

Snapping his right hand fingers, Harry summoned a small flame that he moulded into the figure of a person. He smiled as he heard many a bewildered curse. As with most Britons, they had probably not seen magic before the big reveal, so any new instance of the fact was probably quite shocking still.

"A mage at full power has no vulnerable spots," he continued, having the flame figure seemingly bounce off smaller pellets of fire. "They have spells that can stop kinetic attacks without much effort, and so as the police will no doubt tell you, it is incredibly difficult to bring one down in a straight, one on one gunfight. Fortunately, we will not be fighting this way."

Harry crushed the flame figure in his hand by curling it into a fist. "The key to taking down a mage is simple: exhaust his magic. Most specifically, make him exhaust his magic by being on the defensive," he told them. "While rapid-firing spells _is_ something that the Ministry teaches its mages, simultaneous spells are something none of them can do. Thus, if they have a shield up, they _must_ continue holding up that shield or else it will come down. The only known exception to this rule are wards, which sustain their power via secondary artefacts placed along specific patterns throughout a very select location."

He watched as at least the NCOs and officers grasped what he was saying, though many a private seemed a little lost by all this talk of magic—he didn't blame them, given how alien it must all sound.

"Kinetic energy is one way to deplete the mage's magical capacity," he continued. "By this, of course, I mean levelling as much firepower as possible on their protective spells. While magical energy would be more effective, bullets, grenades, or any other form of weaponry we have will also do."

He saw many a nod as everyone seemed to understand, making him smiled in a pleased fashion. "Good. Now, the biggest issue with mages is that taking one from the front, nevermind a crowd, is always a bad idea if one is not a mage as well. A single shield spell can cover more than one person, which means that while we try to exhaust one mage, the other could still be firing on us. To that end, we must avoid a frontal confrontation with them and instead focus on unleashing our firepower through every possible angle we can come up with. That's lesson number two about shields: they are flat and can only cover from one direction," he lectured.

"As such, we will be dividing into operational section. Each section, in turn, will be given a position based on the terrain we will be fighting in to maximize the coverage of our firepower in the even that hostilities do break out," he stated. "This will mean taking to the roofs of nearby buildings and lying in ambush once we ascertain where the mages are rioting. Any questions?"

One of the NCOs, a sergeant, raised his hand. "Sir," he started with a thick Irish brogue. "I apologize, but I'm still a bit confused. Why would our bullets have a detrimental effect on magical shields?"

Harry smiled. "Magical shields are simply a superior form of Kevlar, sergeant," he told the man. "While it is designed to stop energy from reaching you, enough energy—be it magical or kinetic—_will_ break through," he informed the group before seeing an opportunity to drive in his point. "With magical spells, a powerfully charged spell, even if its effects are not lethal, will easily break through a moderately powered shield. Since only I can do something like that, I can stay at the frontal barricades with a small support team. With bullets, however, you must be very cunning. Rather than all aim at multiple areas to try and thin out the magical reinforcement, you should aim all at a singular point and just try to punch a hole into it. At the rate our weapons fire, this would mean that the same point would have to continuously get magically reinforced at a rate that will deplete the mage's reserves at an astonishing rate," he lectured, before then sweeping his gaze across the gathered soldiers. "Any other questions?"

"Sir," Captain Doherty raised his hand. "Wouldn't it have been best to ask for heli support, seeing as how we're to get to the rooftops?" he asked. "After all, we could then just take positions at the actual riot site, rather than have to lay in ambush."

Harry shook his head. "Magic has a catastrophic effect on modern technology," he informed the captain. "If the support helicopters were to get simply _grazed_ by an errant or well-aimed spell, it would be enough to short-circuit every electrical piece of equipment on board."

Captain Doherty blanched at the thought but nodded, satisfied with his superior's honest answer.

"Is that why we're not getting any form of mechanical support, like APCs?" asked a private.

Harry nodded. "Exactly the reason, soldier. With our Wolfs, we can travel light and fast, but we won't get crippled if their electrical equipment gets fried. With APCs, we could have soldiers getting stuck inside with no way out," he said. "Any other questions?"

"Any spells we should be on the lookout for, sir?" asked another sergeant.

Harry nodded, his expression grim. "If you see a flash of green, duck for cover. That's the Avada Kedavra spell and, while illegal, it is a favourite spell of the more extremist members of the magical community. Also, if any of you notice one of our own seemingly collapsing from seizures, take him out of sight of the mob—that's the Cruciatus Curse, a vicious torture curse that is also quite illegal. For the last one, I've got an idea that I'll brief you on shortly. Any last questions?"

This time, silence descended on the group, and after waiting for a minute for any sudden questions, Harry nodded and clapped his hands. "Good. Now, as for ection assignments…"

The briefing continued for perhaps another thirty minutes before Harry got done, and by then, the whole company was waiting anxiously in their jeeps for the call to come in that the riot had begun. Harry, sitting in the lead jeep, had his eye on the car's digital clock, noting that it was now 7:00 AM and still the police hadn't radioed in the location of the riot…if it had even begun.

At 7:15, Harry began to feel about as anxious as his men were, his left foot tapping the floor of the car restlessly.

"This is ridiculous," Harry hissed as he rubbed his forehead, glaring at the clock. "Colonel Livingston said go-time was 7:00 AM and still nothing!"

"Maybe the mages decided to pass on rioting today, sir?" suggested a Lieutenant sitting in the back seat.

Harry shook his head. "They know full well how damaging they're being, and the Ministry's not going to let up that easily. They want this to push the Prime Minister and Parliament to rescind the motion that set me free," he groused irritably. "It's not a question of if, Lieutenant, but of when."

"Yes, sir," the Lieutenant replied a bit meekly, obviously clued in to his superior's irritation.

At that moment, the radio began to crackle, making most of the people inside the car jump from surprise. Harry quickly rallied, however, and snatched the mike from its holster.

"This is Lieutenant Colonel Francis White," he spoke into the mike, fully aware of how tense everyone in the car was. "Say again, over."

This time, a clear transmission came through, and Harry felt his stomach leap. "_This is Officer Preston, from the Metropolitan Police Service. Rioters have been spotted at Charring Cross and Shaftesbury!_" the report came in. "_Repeat, Charring Cross and Shaftesbury! Be aware that the mob seems to be heading down Shaftesbury!_"

Harry nodded and lifted the mike back to his lips. "Copy that, we're on our way, out," he assured the policeman before holstering the mike again and then turning to the driver. "Private, you heard the man: Charring Cross and Shaftesbury. Lieutenant, pass the word down."

Both men complied with Harry's orders as he settled into his seat, his right hand clenching and releasing as he tried to loosen his body up for the coming fight.

During the ride to Charring Cross and Shaftesbury, however, Harry had the convoy make a detour via Lisle Street, as he was determined to bypass the mob and have his men settle in for the ambush they'd planned. Fortunately, with reports of rioting happening in the area, traffic was pretty dead, allowing the convoy to move around rather liberally.

Furthermore, he had the police keep him updated as to the mob's location, and was relieved to hear that they hadn't yet begun their march, as they seemed to be coordinating themselves still. That gave him time enough to reach a closer location, and as the driver pulled onto Shaftesbury Avenue further down the road from where the rioters were, he found the perfect ambush spot.

"Here, stop!" he ordered the driver, who quickly complied. Harry leaned out the window and looked around at their surroundings, his eyes taking in the amount of high ground his men could occupy and the narrow road that would be easy to barricade with the jeeps. "Perfect. Everyone out!"

True to their training, the soldiers quickly hustled out of the jeeps and onto the street. Harry quickly pointed out the drivers. "Park the jeeps into a barricade across the street; make sure to have them showing the side rather than the front—we don't want to give the mages an easy time pushing them aside."

"Yes, sir!"

While the drivers went back to their vehicles to carry out his orders, Harry turned his attention to several squads. "Captain Doherty, take two sections and get to the top of those rooftops," he pointed out said structure. "Sergeant Murphy, take three and man the rooftops opposite Captain Doherty. If hostilities erupt, send the third section to the of the mob and have them harass the enemy, understood?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Remaining men, man the barricade behind me. We have to give the impression that the main force is at the front and keep their attention off the rooftops," he commanded. "And let's hurry it up, people! They may be slow to start, but once the spells fly, there won't be any time to catch your breath!" he shouted at the retreating forms of his men as they hurried to fulfil his orders.

Satisfied that the men were carrying out their duties appropriately, Harry walked to the newly formed car barricade and took a position just in front of it, waiting for the mob to come. While foolhardy, the move was deliberately calculated to focus the mob's attention on him and not the armed men at his back. That way, he could take on the brunt of the magical attacks while the men sniped off the casters from above.

Five minutes hadn't passed before he heard his earpiece come alive with static, followed immediately by reports of readiness from the sections all around him. Glancing up, he could see the odd muzzle of an assault rifle poking just over the ledge, or sometimes an Irish green beret. Fortunately, there wasn't yet enough sunlight to glint off the weaponry, or else they might have already been given away.

Shortly after the readiness transmissions, the mob came within Harry's view, having just passed the slight curve after the Palace Theatre which, even now, Harry could see seemed to be emitting alarmingly black smoke. He made a personal note to himself to call the fire brigade once the whole business was over.

As the mob grew closer, Harry clenched his hands together behind his back tightly, the natural tension he was feeling heightening as he prepared himself to fight what would have, under different circumstances, been his brethren. Right now, however, they were the government's enemy, and thus his.

He waited for them to get within earshot before calling out to them. "You will cease this public disturbance _immediately_ and surrender yourselves to the authorities!" he demanded sternly, although he did use a bit of wandless magic to enhance his voice so that it carried over the mass destruction the mages were causing.

Almost immediately, the raucous mob seemed to realize that Harry was in fact blocking their path. Considering that he was the focus of their current predicament, they also didn't need long to realize who he was. And then the taunts began.

"Oh look! It's the Muggles' pet wizard!"

"Scared of us, are they?"

"Let's catch him and hang him ourselves, lads!"

"Hang him!"

"Kill him!"

_Etcetera ad nauseam_, and so forth. Harry had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes at the mob, whose collective IQ and vocabulary made them on par with a particularly decomposing shoe.

"You are in violation of the laws set forth by the Parliament of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland!" he repeated, his voice easily dwarfing their with his magic. "You will surrender yourselves to us, or we will take hostile action to disperse this mob!"

"You can't do that!"

"We have our rights!"

"Who cares? Hang him!"

Harry sighed. This was their last chance. "If you surrender now, only charges of rioting will be brought against you!" he told them. "However, should you refuse and not surrender immediately, you will be treated as terrorists as delineated by the Terrorism Act of the year 2000!"

This time, he was met with derisive laughter.

"Dream on, Potter!" one of the men at the front sneered at him. "We're not afraid of you! Once we get our hands on you, you'll be begging us to die!"

Harry's shoulders visibly slumped in resignation, though his true feelings of remorse for what he was about to do didn't even come close to matching the act. Still, it would sound better when Captain Doherty and the others were debriefed if it sounded like Harry had done his best to convince the crowd to peacefully disperse and then only reluctantly gave the order to fire. He saw a single spell come at him then and easily dodged it by shifting his head to the side. The mob had just given him his _cassus belli_.

"You leave me no choice, then," he whispered softly, his voice-magnifying magic dispelled, as he reached for his earpiece with his left hand and tapped it. "Frontal section, open fire."

The sudden show of brutal force took the mob by surprise and many of the front-most wizards and witches fell to the sudden barrage of bullets that ripped into them. Instinct quickly took over, however, as the mages rallied and began to wave their wands in Harry's general direction, which he countered by bringing both his arms to his sides and sliding into a crouched ready stance (no need to give the enemy a bigger target).

The moment the first spell flew from the mob, Harry was ready and quickly snapped a shield into existence a few feet in front of him. To his relief, not many of the spells were of any significant power, but the stress on the shield did become enough that he let it dissipate—lest it drain _his_ reserves—and quickly snapped a second one into existence just behind it, successfully stopping the first volley of spell fire.

Quickly, he raised a hand to his earpiece and clicked it. "Rooftops, open fire!" he ordered briskly before again snapping shields into place as the spells kept coming his way. The rate at which they came quickly fell, however, as Doherty and the other sections on the rooftops suddenly made themselves known and opened fire on the mob below.

The sudden distraction finally gave Harry the time he needed to concentrate for his offensive spells—which quickly made him realize that he wasn't used to the rapid-fire nature of wizard combat. Raising his right hand—his dominant hand—he snapped his fingers at the mob, whispering "_Ardere_" as he did so.

Tongues of flames shot out from the magical spark he'd created with the motion and raced towards the mob, catching the more distracted members off guard as the fire consumed them. It wasn't the most effective spell at taking down large quantities of people, he knew, but he wasn't going to risk using Fiendfyre in the middle of goddamn _London_, either.

That didn't mean he had no other spells in his repertoire, however. Snapping his fingers on both hands while aiming at the ground beneath the front-most wizards and witches in front of him, Harry cast a Reductor spell that blasted many a mage into their comrades, causing further confusion and allowing the rooftop sections to have an easier time picking off the distracted targets.

Some of the mob tried to flee back the way they came, only to be met by another section of Irish Rangers that, as per his orders, had come down from the rooftops and flanked the mob while they weren't looking. The resulting scenario was that of a simple, effective kill box. Forced to look every which way for danger, compounded by lack of training in working as a unit, and also just freaking out by the amount of damage the Muggles and their treacherous commander were causing, the wizards and witches were quickly falling into all out panic.

It wasn't long, then, before the first popping sounds reached Harry's ears, signalling someone Disapparating. Soon after that, it took maybe five minutes before the survivors from the mob had all vanished, leaving their wounded and dead behind.

Harry crinkled his nose at the sight. There were bodies all around the area where they had managed to box them in. Even from just eyeballing it, he could tell there were _at least_ twenty bodies and many more wounded. He sighed once again and then lifted his hand to touch his earpiece.

"All units assemble for post-action procedure ASAP," he ordered, ignoring the confirmations that followed as he kept his gaze on the fracas before him.

A part of him truly did regret what he had just done, but at the same time, he knew it had been necessary. The Ministry had to have known the impact the riots were having, and yet they had decided not to intervene, as a form of passive aggressive protest against the government's decision. Only, as a Ministry, they had no legal right to withhold protection of the innocent over a squabble with 10 Downing Street and Westminster. By putting down the riots, Harry knew the Prime Minister's position had been empowered, as he had proven that there was no need for a special, wizard police to deal with rogue mages if one simply used the correct tactics.

Tactics, he was grimly reminded, that would have proven useful to the guards who'd been escorting him to the Ministry before getting ambushed by the Death Eaters.

* * *

**London, United Kingdom, May 23****rd****, 2010 (D-Day +482)…**

Harry's long-awaited reunion with William, Sirius (the real one, anyway), John, and Elicia finally came the next day as Colonel Livingston passed on the news that the Ministry, though unspeakably outraged at the massacre of the previous day, had been finally cowed into grudging silence. Reports from Sirius' sources even indicated that the charges against him had been formally dropped.

Clearly, the body count had served to frighten the crap out of the Ministry, whose long supposition of outright mage superiority now needed desperate rethinking.

Thus freed from the threat of incarceration, Sirius and the others had flown down to London on a regional flight the very next day in the afternoon and had all but stormed Harry's loft as they sought to congratulate their friend/sibling/nephew/lover.

Elicia had been particularly demonstrative of her affection for him, having tackled him the moment he had opened the door and smothering his face with elated kisses. John, his pregnant fiancée, and Sirius laughed at the scene, while William gave his older brother a look of approval.

Not even the typically sobering news that the body count of the previous day had been finalized at 25 dead, 39 wounded managed to lower their spirits as they celebrated their long-awaited reunion.

Harry, with Elicia firmly planted on his lap and cuddled into his neck, felt particularly happy about seeing his loved ones again. He had, naturally, introduced himself charmingly enough to John's fiancée as to make the poor girl blush (eliciting a mockingly jealous comment of a rather rude nature from John), had wormed out of Sirius the identity of the Michael White persona who'd given the interview (Sirius' double, apparently), congratulated his little brother for the brilliant idea of using a PR campaign to get him out of jail, and then proceeded to challenge John and Elicia to a drinking contest, for old times' sake.

The fact that they'd never actually _had_ a drinking contest before, as pointed out by William, never really registered with the reunited trio. Nor did the fact that Elicia was still quite happily sitting on his lap while they drank themselves into a happy stupor register as a bad idea to Harry at the time.

At least, not until she passed out from the booze and slumped against him, causing him to overturn his glass and pour it on her skirt, which in turn woke her up again and, in drunken confusion, caused her to slam down her hands and push herself off of his lap, with one hand coincidentally aimed firmly at his family jewels.

Needless to say, John and Sirius were left howling with laughter as Harry doubled over and whimpered at the unintentionally savage attack on his person, while Elicia looked around confusedly. Despite that particular setback, however, the group did have fond (albeit blurred) memories of the night.

The next morning, in fact, Elicia came out to the kitchen (having spent the night in the master bedroom with Harry while the others divvied up the apartment for sleeping arrangements) to find Harry happily humming a tune as he cooked breakfast.

"Well, you sound positively _jolly_," she grumbled as she stumbled her way to a seat, her hangover figuratively killing her.

"Good morning to you too, sunshine!" Harry greeted her jovially, ignoring the sarcasm in her tone. "I've got the usual: eggs, bacon, and toast."

"Ugh, no thanks…got any—"

"It's in the fridge," he told her, pre-empting her request. "I made some of your hangover cure the moment I got here, since I knew you'd be looking for some and I don't really want to have to clean the kitchen after _you_ make it," he told her with a grin.

"Bite me, White," she grumbled on instinct, slowly trudging over to the refrigerator and pulling out the foul-looking concoction that she swore was the cure for all hangovers.

She didn't manage to get further than the refrigerator door, however, before she felt Harry's arms circle her waist and his head lean onto the crook of her neck.

"I missed you," he whispered. "_So damn much_."

Elicia, despite the killer hangover she had, smiled genuinely as she closed her eyes and leaned back into his embrace, her free hand coming up to his cheek. "I missed you too," she told him sincerely.

No further words needed to be said between the two as they just stood there, content in each other's presence. Even drunk beyond comprehension the previous night, they had not given in to their lust and had settled for simply sleeping with each other peacefully—which probably explained why Harry had so much energy at this time of day.

"It feels weird to say this," Elicia spoke up after a moment. "But I'm kinda glad we broke up."

She felt Harry tense up. "Oh?" he asked neutrally.

"It's not like that!" she chastised him softly. "Remember when you got found out? Two of those…dark wizard catchers, I think Sirius called them, came to me because of our relationship in high school."

Elicia felt Harry's hug at her midriff tighten ever so subtly. Clearly, he was not pleased with this information. "Of course, I told them I didn't know where you were," she continued, ignoring the tense grip he had on her. "and I think the reason they bought it was because I could honestly say we had broken up over ideological differences."

"I don't understand," Harry confessed after a moment, his grip loosening only a fraction.

She gently reached up to pat his cheek, a smile on her face. "I told them I broke up with Francis White, which we did, remember?" she reminded him. "Not that I was seeing Harry Potter."

Elicia grinned when she heard him chuckle in amusement.

"A cunning interpretation of events, love," he praised her, his grip now completely devoid of the angry tension it had been sporting. "I knew I made the right choice with you."

She gave a playful snort of derision. "Please. _I_ picked _you_, remember?"

This time, Harry burst out into laughter.

* * *

**London, United Kingdom, May 30****th****, 2010 (D-Day +489)…**

As with all things regarding life, however, the laughter had to end sooner or later.

Unfortunately for Harry, the laughter ended sooner.

Barely a week after he had put down the riot, he had been called to the Ministry of Defence to give a brief overview of the training program he'd be teaching to new military mages when a haggard-looking man burst into Colonel Livingston's office, disrupting the entire presentation.

"There's been an attack!" the man cried out, his expression a mix of horror, outrage, and helplessness.

So disrupted, the meeting abruptly ended as everyone in the room, including Harry and Colonel Livingston, rushed to the man's side and demanded details. Getting the man to calm down enough to speak had been a chore in and of itself, however, as the man seemed traumatized by whatever he had seen or heard (at present, they had no idea how he knew there even _was_ an attack!).

Eventually, however, they did manage to get him to explain himself, having offered him a seat and a glass of water (mixed in with a little scotch for the nerves).

"The news just came in downstairs," the man finally gasped out. "A few tube stations got hit by massive explosions. Everyone's scrambling to deal with the situation!"

Harry blinked at the news. That was incredibly odd, given that the only enemy the UK was presently actively fighting were the Spanish, and their Wartime Measures ensured that immigration into the island was borderline impossible at the moment.

"What else?" he asked roughly, feeling there were more details missing from the man's report.

"…I don't know how accurate this is, but from what they've been saying, skull-shaped clouds were found in the sky above the incident areas," he added a little nervously, hoping not to be disparaged by the comment.

Harry blanched, recognizing the symbol described easily, given his prior study of the Death Eater movement at a time when he'd been determined to understand the cult that had nearly ended his family's lives. "A skull?" he repeated weakly. "With a snake coming from its mouth, maybe?"

The man looked at Harry bewilderedly. "How did you know?" he asked.

Harry groaned and palmed his face, having understood who the perpetrators were. "Death Eaters," he hissed out angrily. "Death Eaters did this."

"Who are these Death Eaters?" demanded the colonel irritably, disliking the feeling of being in the dark.

"Mage terrorists," Harry summed up. "All of them either borderline or totally psychopathic. Racists, too, and with a penchant for extreme violence against those who don't use magic or aren't human."

"…aren't human?" one of the officers who'd been attending the meeting asked weakly, though he was ignored by Harry and Livingston, who were both quite focused on the graver matter at hand.

"Can we expect more attacks of this kind to happen?" asked Livingston.

Harry nodded. "Sadly so, sir," he confirmed. "They're not ones to just hit a few tube stations and then run—they'll be looking for a big hit, now that they've caught our attention."

"When?" asked the Colonel, anxiety permeating his expression.

Harry shrugged impotently. "There's no way to tell," he admitted grudgingly. "Could be two weeks, or even a minute from now. All we can really be sure of, however, is that their big hit will come at a time of great significance to us."

"Wait, isn't today when the House of Commons meets for PMQ?" asked one of the audience members, horror creeping into his tone. "That's almost a guarantee for a full house!"

Harry's eyes bulged as he realized the man was correct. "Dear god…and the House of Lords…aren't they in the middle of a second reading for a rather important bill?" he added with growing dread.

Livingston was quick to catch on and pointed at a Lieutenant that had come to view Harry's presentation. "Go find _any _of the generals and tell him we've got an emergency!" he ordered. "Tell them the _entire_ government, even the Crown, is in danger of a mage terrorist attack, and we've got to mobilize to contain the threat!"

The lieutenant in question nodded and quickly ran out of the office, leaving the panicked crowd inside Livingston's office to their worries.

"Where else are they likely to strike?" demanded Livingston as he wheeled to stare at his subordinate.

Harry quickly brought up all the relevant information on the Death Eaters he'd studied in the past. "From the way they've fought in the previous mage civil war, they'll go for high-ranking government officials and those likely to be the biggest threats to them. In their case, the dark wizard catchers known as Aurors and prominent Ministry loyalist families," he recounted. "In our case…I would suppose that would translate into our police and our…armed…forces…" he said with growing realization. "Oh, _fuck me_!" he swore. "This entire building's a bloody target!"

Livingston swore and quickly went to his desk, snatched up his phone, and dialled the lobby. "This is Colonel Howard Livingston," he barked into the phone. "I am informing this facility of the great probability that we are a target for a mage terrorist bombing. Initiate evacuation protocol immediately!"

Meanwhile, Harry tried to keep his nerves under control as his mind feverishly worked at trying to dissect how the Death Eaters' plans would unfold. Would they hit Parliament first? The MOD? The Crown, perhaps? Would they go after police stations or more subway stations to cripple their transportation?

"White, let's go!" Livingston yelled at him as he strode out the office door, having already been preceded by the rest of Harry's former audience. "If those poxy sons of bitches really want to blow this place up, I'd rather we're not in it when it happens!"

Merely nodding wordlessly, Harry followed after his superior, quickly making their way down the hallways of the MOD as they headed for the staircase. On the way there, he felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket and drew it out. Seeing his home caller ID, he flipped open the phone and blocked his other ear out with a finger, as the whiny noise of the general alarm was sounded throughout the building.

"Hello?" he shouted into the mouthpiece.

"_Harry? What the hell is going on?_" he heard Elicia cry out. "_We just turned on the news and found out there's been bombings at Trafalgar and Soho!_"

"I know!" Harry replied loudly as he jumped a few stairs to keep up with his superior's brisk pace. "Tell Sirius that I think the Death Eaters are behind this! He'll explain everything!"

"_Why can't you? And what the hell is that noise?_"

"General alarm, sweetheart!" he told her bluntly. "Turns out, the MOD is one big target, too!"

"_WHAT?_"

Harry actually had to remove the phone from his ear at the amazingly loud shriek Elicia had given upon finding out that her beloved was currently in a building marked for terrorist demolition.

"Tell Sirius to explain!" he repeated. "I have to go, Ellie! I'll see you soon, okay?"

"_Harry! Please be careful!_"

Harry smiled. "Always, love," he answered gently before shutting the phone.

Harry and quite a bit of the MOD staff were reaching the final stairway to the lobby at this point, and Livingston afforded his subordinate a curious glance.

"Everything alright, White?" he asked gruffly.

Harry nodded. "As well as can be—"

Then, with a sudden, violent shudder and a loud noise reminiscent of a super-tanker exploding, Harry's whole world went white, then dark as his consciousness slipped away, one last thought passing through his mind before he then knew no more.

The Death Eaters had hit the Ministry of Defence first.

* * *

_Post-A/N: As a final note, I may or may not change the last scene in the future. I'm not quite satisfied with how it was written, which, considering that it was done so at 4:30 AM and I'm sick to my stomach, is already there only by sheer miracle._

_Also, concerning the Roy Mustang association with Harry: while I admit being inspired by Roy Mustang's neat little fire alchemy for Harry's form of wandless magic, this chapter should make it clear that he does not only use fire spells-he is simply more proficient with them due to their practicality while on a battlefield. Furthermore, the next chapter and elements of all the ones currently posted should show that his personality is much more ruthless than that of Roy._

_Also, still not apologizing for the long chapters. :P_

_EDIT: Holy crap I made a big mistake. As one helpful anonymous reviewer pointed out, I accidentally bumped Harry down one rank in this chapter. This has now been fixed. His correct 'canon' rank is Lieutenant Colonel, for future reference.  
_


	5. Chapter IV: Neutralized

_AN: Another chapter! This one had me stuck for a while, and I was uncertain whether to keep going at the end, but figured it should stick within the "theme" of the chapter, so to speak._

_Unfortunately, very little action-mostly plotting and mind games.  
_

* * *

**London, United Kingdom, June 7****th****, 2010 (D-Day +497)…**

It was almost surreal how quickly his life had been turned upside down, Harry mused in his hospital bed.

Just eight days ago, he had been the Lieutenant Colonel responsible for bringing down a highly dangerous mob of wizard extremists on one of their rampages through London as a result of his Parliamentary pardon, and now he was (still) a Lieutenant Colonel lying down in a hospital bed as the doctors fawned over him, stunned by the fact that he was even still alive after having been caught up in the terrorist attack on the Ministry of Defense.

Well, former Ministry of Defense.

As it turned out, the Death Eaters out to hurt him and the government that sheltered him had hit the Ministry hard. Unlike typical terrorist bombings, this one had essentially blown out the Ministry building entirely, leaving only a few walls standing and the rest lying on the ground in a pile of rubble. It was underneath said rubble that he had been found, in fact. According to what the doctors had told him, they'd found him unconscious near a group of survivors who swore that he'd done something with his "freaky magic thing" to keep the rubble from killing them.

Harry glanced at his hands, ignoring the doctors still babbling excitedly. They were wrapped in bandages and coated in soothing burn relief cream.

When they'd told him of what he'd done in a half-conscious state, he had been easily able to connect the dots of the event and postulated that he'd employed accidental magic to keep himself and the others safe. For a wandless mage who enjoyed using his hands as the natural conduit of his magic, unfortunately, the amount of magic he had to release at once without control had caused severe burns on his hands.

It was amusing, in a way. The doctors had all been more worried about his broken legs, though Harry had insisted he would be fine if all they did was just set the bones in place. True to his word, once informed his bones had indeed been set in place from the very beginning, he brought up his bandaged right hand and, with a tremulous, pained snap cast the _Femur Emendo_ spell, causing the bones to mend while taking great care to concentrate enough so he wouldn't mess up and accidentally vanish his bones instead.

Unfortunately, he then promptly passed out for another day as the pain of using magic through the burned hand wracked his body.

Still, it was quite the commotion when he woke up again, surrounded by astounded doctors who had watched him crush every bit of medical knowledge they had sworn to be true in a matter of a single second. The revelation of a whole new range of medical ingredients and methodologies had served to wet their intellectual appetites enormously, and it was only the promise of copies of these newly revealed manuscripts that had managed to get the doctors off his back.

One thing that did surprise him was the fact that he had actually held back on letting his loved ones know he was conscious again. It confused him for a while, even as he ordered one of his guards to let his superiors know, until the reason finally hit him as Colonel Livingston and a gaggle of other officers entered his room, all of them looking rather haggard but still quite alive.

He simply did not want to be seen in a moment of weakness by those he held dearest. It was laughable, certainly, as one would think such reservation would be employed towards his superiors and subordinates instead of those he trusted most, but this was not the case.

His superiors had to see he wasn't infallible and invincible so they would exercise caution and not use him as a solve-all tool, but his loved ones did not need to see this as well, because all it would do is make them less open to his execution of dangerous plans. They would get to see him once most of his injuries were cleared up.

"Lieutenant Colonel, good to see you up and about," greeted Livingston as he led the small group of recovering officers into the room. "How are you feeling?"

Pleasantries first, Harry presumed. "Weary, but fine overall, sir," he said by way of greeting with a tired smile—it wasn't that hard to conjure up, either, given that he did feel a little tired. He analyzed the faces of the men and women accompanying his superior with a critical eye. "Sir, no disrespect intended, but may I know who you've brought to my room?"

Livingston nodded and motioned to the small group behind him. "These are the majority of the surviving officer corps of the British Armed Forces, barring those already in the field in Spain," he explained dejectedly.

Harry blinked at the information. There hadn't been that many officers in the Ministry of Defense to _begin with_, so how was it possible for this many to constitute the majority? Unless…

"London wasn't the only city to be attacked, was it?" he asked shrewdly, eyes narrowed in realization.

"Correct," one of the attending officers, a Lieutenant whose right eye was covered by a bloodied bandage, confirmed. "The attacks were launched on every major Army, Navy, and Air Force base in the isles."

"They hit us hard, White," Livingston summed up as he took a seat next to Harry's bed. "And they were smart about it, too. Our chain of command has been irrevocably damaged; most of the generals were at the Ministry just for work, and a few more were conducting training exercises at said military bases."

"We're still wondering how they knew where to hit us, however," one of the few women in the group, a blonde wearing Captain insignia, spoke up. "It seems unlikely that there were leaks within the system—most of the men are, at best, wary of magic and mages."

Harry didn't have to conduct a poll to know that was true. "It was the massacre," he guessed.

"I beg your pardon?" asked Livingston blankly.

"The mage massacre we conducted at Charring Cross and Shaftesbury," he clarified. "When they were rioting, remember? A few of them survived—no doubt extremist sympathizers. They probably reported what they saw and their leaders made the appropriate research."

"Their leaders? This so-called Ministry of Magic?" asked a Major indignantly. "So this is all about a coup?"

Harry shook his head, but it was Livingston who spoke up in his stead. "The Lieutenant Colonel informed me just prior to the attack that the Ministry wasn't the one behind the attacks, but rather a terrorist cell called the Death Eaters," he explained. "Your average malcontents with the tools to make things explode."

"Except their tools are, in theory, limitless," Harry cut in. "Given the appropriate rotational schedule, it is conceivable that a single group of five Death Eaters could have done most of the damage we witnessed today."

The pallor that beset the group then told him his point had been made as to the versatility and danger of a renegade mage. "The Ministry has been fighting these people for a while now," he added. "But for the most part, they've managed to keep a lid on this fight in order not to frighten their populace."

"How did you know, then?" asked Livingston.

No use for secrets at this point. "My parents have been cultivating informers in the Ministry for over a decade now," he explained. "In terms of operational secrecy structures, their entire hierarchy has been compromised by our agents. We know every move they make and will make, sometimes even before most of their own people do."

"And you couldn't warn us of this attack why?" demanded an angry Colonel. "Were you in league with them! Did it amuse you to watch us normal folk die at the hands of your kind?"

"Jefferson, calm down!" Livingston warned his colleague as he got up. "You are way out of line!"

Harry shook his head. "No, sir, he has every right to be angry at me—in fact, _I'm_ angry at myself right now as well," he admitted. "For all our resources, we were unable to even predict this attack on our government. The guilt is on myself and my family, I'm afraid."

One of the officers scoffed—a brunette woman wearing the three pips of a Brigadier General and her right arm in a sling. "Feeling guilty is all well and good, Colonel White, but it doesn't solve our immediate problem. Livingston, please inform your subordinate of the severity of the situation we are facing."

Livingston nodded at his superior, turning to face Harry with a dejected and defeated look. "The Armed Forces were hit hard, that's true, but it's not all that got hit," he told Harry. "Parliament took a beating as well. Both Houses were going through full sessions when the attacks started. Fortunately, a few survived, either through dumb luck or by being late or absent, so we've still got a few MPs in both Houses running around."

Livingston took a deep breath, ignoring the stunned expression on his subordinate's face. "The Prime Minister is dead, as are the cabinet members. Normally, that would just be solved by having Parliament elect a new Prime Minister, but with our current situation…that may not be possible," he explained before looking a little more dejected. "The Crown…"

"Let me guess," Harry cut in softly. "Taken out to a man?"

"Almost," confirmed the Brigadier. "One of the princes survived, if you can call it that."

"What do you mean, ma'am?" asked Harry cautiously.

"The prince, or our King now, I suppose, is quadriplegic," Livingston informed him. "He can talk, he can think, he has limited movement of the arms, but beyond that, he's confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life."

"Any chance of heirs?" asked Harry, dreading the answer.

The Brigadier shook her head. "None. The P—_King_," she corrected herself, "was severely injured in the attack. That he's able to do this much is already a miracle."

Harry brought up his hands to his face and covered it as he finally showed the extent of his frustration and tiredness. Nothing was going his way anymore. _None_ of this was supposed to ever happen! It was supposed to be a straight shot up the military ladder, then a political campaign for the position of Prime Minister, and then the Ministry would be off his family's back! None of this…absurd turn of events was supposed to happen!

How had he lost control so catastrophically?

"The reason we're even informing you of this, Colonel White," the Brigadier continued, seemingly uncaring of Harry's mental anguish, "is because out of everyone left, you and your uncle are the only ones who know how these mages operate. We've already initiated countermeasures to contain the political and civil fallout, but we don't know how to proceed in regards to the perpetrators _or_ the Ministry."

Harry kept his face covered throughout the explanation, his mind awhirl. He wanted to break down, just tell them he hadn't a damned clue how best to proceed. He wanted to rant and rave at how the Ministry and the damned Death Eaters had ruined everything he had carefully planned most of his life, and wanted to abandon all duty just to drown in his self-pity.

The officers seemed to understand this, as Livingston and the Brigadier exchanged a look while Harry wasn't looking. Sniffing condescendingly, the brunette Brigadier gave her subordinates a stern glare that succeeded in getting them to leave the room, with Livingston being the last one to go, having stayed back to put a comforting hand on his anguished subordinate's shoulder. Once the graying man had left, the Brigadier shut the door behind him and turned to give Harry a disappointed and revolted glare.

"After the attack, when Colonel Livingston told me you were a mage, I was of a mind to have you shot," she told him icily, ignoring the fact that he wasn't paying visual attention to her. "He vouched for you—said you were a good man and a loyal soldier; that your former superiors were full of praises for your gallant conduct. But you know what I see?" she asked angrily.

"I see a whipped dog!" she reprimanded him. "I see a little boy who thought he could deal with the real world and just found out he was being arrogant beyond belief! So you had a plan, big deal!" she snorted when his head shot up and stared at her perplexedly. "Oh please, you think you're the only one who guides their life with a plan? I know your type, White. You plan every little thing, you always make the choice with the biggest profit, and if something goes wrong, you panic. You want my advice, White? As the saying goes, _grow a pair_."

Harry was taken aback by the woman's rude and frank rebuke. He certainly hadn't been expecting _this._ He even flinched when she stormed up to him and poked him roughly in the forehead.

"Everyone loves to throw around a cliché whenever they make speeches, White, and most of them are _shite_," she continued. "But here's one that _is_ true: no plan _ever_ comes out intact after first contact with the enemy. If you hit a roadblock, you suck it up and plan around it or through it, White, because that's what good officers do!"

Harry remained silent as the woman chastised him, quietly listening as she verbally tore him a new one for his reticence. "Civilians get to freeze when things go wrong, White, because their lives don't hang in the balance. Us? We don't get that luxury," she reminded him. "If we freeze, good men and women die, and that stays on your conscience until the day you _die_. So when something goes wrong and the plan hits a snag, you man up and find a way through it or around it, but you _never _stop planning!"

The Brigadier took a step back then, finally removing her face from inches in front of Harry's. "I lost a lot of friends today, White, and I'm sure you have too. I'm sure Livingston will be attending a lot of funerals in the coming days, as will your uncle. But you know what? They're dead, and we're not. You want to make their deaths count for something? Man up, tell us how to proceed regarding the Ministry and the Death Eaters, and then _get out of this bloody bed and get back in the fight_."

The Brigadier fell silent after that, and Harry guessed she had decided to observe his reaction. Whatever she saw didn't seem to please her, however, as she walked towards the door with a condescending sniff and made to leave. Only once the door was slightly ajar did she stop, causing Harry to look up slightly.

"If you ever decide you want to become the man everyone seems to think you are, tell Livingston to call me so we can have a chat about your future," she told him seriously. "This is a whole new world now, White, and while I have no time for cowards, I could use a few good men."

With that said, the woman threw open the door and walked out, leaving the surprised guards outside looking in to see what on earth had just happened to make the Brigadier throw open the door.

All they saw was the narrow-eyed, pondering expression of their charge, one hand cupping his chin as he stared down at his covers.

* * *

**London, United Kingdom, June 11****th****, 2010 (D-Day +501)…**

Four days had passed since the Brigadier had walked out on him after having chastised him like a child, and Harry had finally allowed for his loved ones to know he was able to see visitors.

In the intermittent time between his actual return to consciousness and this day, he had used his magic to accelerate his recovery where he could, taking great care in avoiding the use of his hands as the conductor of the magic. Due to his magical burns there and the excruciating pain it caused him to channel magic into them, he had decided to forego trying to magically heal them and instead let them do so naturally, which, although slow, would finish eventually. Until then, however, he resorted to using gloves to cover the extent of the burns.

His other injuries, having no such impediment towards magical treatment, had quickly healed since his rebuke, and by the time his loved ones arrived at his hospital room, the only indications of any injuries on his person were the bandage wrapped around his head and the gloves on his hands.

The reunion among friends felt oddly…strange to Harry. Elicia, having been the last person to talk to him, was strangely enough not the first to get to his side, instead hanging back while John rushed to give his wounded friend a manly hug, Sirius patted him on the shoulder, and William just took a seat next to his bed and nodded at him with a neutral smile. Even after the men had been done with their enthusiastic greetings, she did not advance towards him, apparently settling for staring at him piercingly, as though he were an interesting puzzle to figure out.

It sort of reminded him of her younger days; when he'd first met her, in fact.

Nonetheless, she did not move forward towards him during the entire visit, something that Harry knew the others had noticed as well but had chosen not to comment on. It wasn't until William had discreetly motioned for them to leave that the two had been left alone to talk out whatever obviously needed talking about.

In fact, the moment the door had clicked close, Harry spoke up, a wary expression on his face.

"You're strangely silent, Ellie," he observed. "Something on your mind?"

Still she did not speak. Still her eyes gazed upon him as though he were an experiment. The good memories of her youth were gone now, and all that the look elicited in Harry was increasing caution.

"You nearly died," she finally spoke up, immediately grabbing his attention.

Harry snorted. "Obviously not. Practically no wounds, see?" he refuted, showing off his healthy body.

She tilted her head slightly to the side. "You're lying to me," she noted calmly. "You swore you would never do that again."

"I'm not lying," he pressed between gritted teeth. "I'm fine."

"Then why were you out of contact for over a week?" she asked. Still her tone had not changed. Still calm, still scientifically neutral.

"Rubble knocked me out," he argued, pointing to his remaining head bandage.

"And yet while your head gets hit, no other part of your body does?" she asked archly. "Why are you wearing gloves?" she then asked in a seeming non-sequitur.

"…magical burns," he told her truthfully. "I apparently did quite a bit of accidental magic just before getting knocked unconscious."

She nodded. "At least now you're telling me the truth," she noted. "Harry, why are you lying to me about nearly dying?"

"I'm not!" he insisted. "I'm fine!"

"_BUT YOU WEREN'T A WEEK AGO!_" she suddenly yelled, surprising him.

"E-Ellie…"

"You nearly _died_, Harry!" she said accusingly as she stormed up to him and poked him in the chest. "You nearly _died_ and what's worse, you're _lying_ to us about it! Why? Why are you lying to us…to _me_ about this?" she demanded.

"Does it matter?" he asked hotly. "It's in the past, Ellie! I didn't die, I'm fine now, so let's get on with our lives, okay?"

She pushed him back onto his pillows roughly. "Of course it's not okay, you inconsiderate _berk_!" she snapped back. "Harry, we were _beside_ ourselves with worry for the past week! We thought you were dead for sure! And here you are now, obviously healed up nice and proper, and you're trying to pass yourself off as Superman! Why, Harry?"

"Does it matter?" he asked again, his eyes narrowed in defiance.

"It does to me, Harry!" she told him firmly. "What did you think I would think after seeing you? That you couldn't be taken from me? That, what, you could survive _anything_?" she speculated.

Right on the nail, just as he'd expected of his intellectual soul mate.

"Harry, don't you think I _know_ by now that you're still _very_ human and _very_ fallible?" she pressed on. "We've had wonderful years together, true, but you still mucked it up sometimes! I know this better than…well…probably _anyone_ at this point!"

"You'd protest," he told her quietly, his gaze softening.

She sniffed, wiping away tears with her thumbs. "You're damned right I'd protest!" she confirmed, having easily made the logical connections from his statement. "I'd fight you over and over again to prevent you from taking stupid risks, but _God above_, Harry, I _know_ you! I know that if you're really set on something, you'll do it no matter what I say!"

"I'm not _that_ stubborn," he protested weakly, knowing full well he indeed was.

She scoffed disbelievingly. "Right, and I'm the bloody Queen of England!" she exclaimed. "The point is, Harry, don't lie to me in some stupid display of _machismo_. I knew full well what I was getting into when I agreed to be yours, so don't shut me out like this."

"This was for your own peace of mind," he informed her with a small, resigned smile.

"I'd rather fret, thank you very much," she countered with her own small smile. "Gives me a better grasp of reality that way."

"Scientists!" he exclaimed exasperatedly.

She playfully conked him on the shoulder for the comment before giving him a true smile. "Shut it, you," she admonished him. "Now then, what's my brilliant lover got in mind to deal with this rather interesting situation?"

Harry didn't even need to ask how she knew he'd been plotting again. After that rebuke, he gathered she probably knew him even better than he'd previously thought. It was both an endearing thought and a terrifying one. Instead of questioning her, he just smiled conspiringly at her.

"I need you to find an officer called Colonel Livingston," he told her. "Tell him to pass on the message that I have a plan, then get Sirius and William in here."

"Can I at least watch the super-secret meeting you'll no doubt be having?" she asked sarcastically.

Harry grinned up at her. "You know I could never say no to you."

She smiled and leaned down to kiss him on the cheek. "That's my man."

* * *

**London, United Kingdom, June 14****th****, 2010 (D-Day +504)…**

"I hear you've grown a pair, White."

Harry smiled politely as he watched the brusque Brigadier who'd chewed him out seven days ago walk into the room. It was still quite the marvel to him to see such a crude woman so high up in the ranks, but none of this even began to compare to the surprise he felt when he saw the woman sporting the insignia of a full General.

He quickly rallied, however, and kept up his smile. "I see congratulations are in order, Madame General," he said politely.

The brunette glanced down at her epaulets and sniffed condescendingly. "Decorating cloth, nothing more," she said dismissively. "Rather than kiss my well toned arse, however, I'm more interested in hearing what you've got to say on our current predicament, White."

Harry couldn't help the easy grin that bloomed on his face as he heard quite a few men gasp at the rudeness of the senior officer. Harry, on the other hand, didn't mind it so much anymore. Compared to the strict formality others demanded, this new approach to command was…refreshing.

"General Curtis, _please…_" Harry could hear one of the woman's aides plead next to her.

"Oh, bugger off, Wilkins!" she snapped at the man. "This isn't some black tie event! I'll curse however I want to, damn it all!"

Harry couldn't help the chuckle that escaped his lips, noting that many an officer in attendance had frozen at his improper action. General Curtis' attention, too, seemed riveted on him now.

"Something funny, White?" she asked dangerously.

Harry was unfazed by the challenge. He believed he understood this woman now. The rudeness, the crude nature of her speech…it was mostly to measure how each subordinate would react. A spineless follower would just suck it up and/or try to change her mannerisms to protect her image and thus their position, but the men and women she was looking for had to be far more thick-skinned than that.

"I'm just relieved, ma'am," he told her with a smile. "If the General can show such spirits even in times of crisis like this one, then I am all the more sure that we can prevail."

The General's smile was just as dangerous as her tone. "Still kissing my arse, White?"

"Just stating facts, ma'am," he replied calmly.

"Explain."

Harry nodded. "With pleasure," he said with a smile before sweeping his gaze over the group and clearing his throat silently. "As we're all undoubtedly aware, most of our government is currently in shambles. Our Parliament has been virtually annihilated, the cabinet members are dead, and the institution that gave legitimacy to everyone else, the Crown, is now reduced to a single, disabled, and traumatized Prince."

General Curtis snorted. "If I wanted to crush everyone's spirits, White, I'd have done it myself," she snarked.

Harry's easy demeanour did not change. "This wasn't meant to dampen anyone's spirits, General," he countered. "On the contrary, it is just a basic outlining of our situation. The real analysis comes now. Uncle?" he said, looking to his side.

The sombre-looking Parliamentarian nodded and clasped his hands behind his back. "According to the Potter family sources within the Ministry of Magic, there's been a lot of discussion regarding the possibility of taking over the non-magical government now that we stand at our weakest state," he informed the small group. "So far, our agents have been running a lot of interference in the discussions, but even with its typical slowness, the Ministry is expected to come to a decision very soon."

"How soon?" demanded Curtis.

Sirius shrugged. "Two weeks at best. One, at worst," he speculated.

"What about the Death Eaters?" asked someone in the group. "They did this to us, shouldn't we be focusing our energies on finding them and bringing them to justice?"

"The Death Eaters are undoubtedly satisfied by this act of bloody vengeance on us," Harry answered. "Even if they weren't, the strategic planning necessary to harm us even further would require time—time which we can use to deal with the more pressing matter of the Ministry's plans to absorb the remainder of our government."

"You think they'll definitely try?" asked Curtis interestedly.

Harry nodded. "There's no way they'll pass up the opportunity to impose their own power structure on us now that they've seemingly been offered a legitimate reason to do so," he analyzed. "Even the most extremist Wizard would vote for such a move, as the current legal framework in place in the magical community ensures that those unable to use magic are second class citizens."

"Leaving us at the mercy of a system we could not then appeal to," Sirius added in. "Given enough preparation, they could use their magical abilities to suppress dissent as well; taking over the country would then not be such an arduous task."

"A chilling thought," agreed Curtis as she cupped her chin pensively.

"General, please give us the order to suppress this danger at once!" exclaimed one of the remaining military officers, soon echoed by his colleagues.

Curtis, however, kept her stare on Harry and Sirius. "Could we pull such a move off?" she asked.

"In theory, yes," Harry replied, thankful that between he, William, and Sirius, they had thought this through earlier. "However, the gains from such a move would be minimal compared to the losses."

"How so?" asked Curtis, noticing that the officers in the room had begun puffing up indignantly at Harry's unspoken supposition that he knew better than they.

Harry smiled calmly. "As I previously mentioned, the Death Eaters have undoubtedly had their appetites sated after this attack; however, this is not a permanent situation," he reminded the group. "A protracted war between our forces and the Ministry would simply allow these extremists to organize another strike to further weaken us, in the hopes that by the end of our conflict with the Ministry, both sides would be ripe for the picking."

"A diminution tactic," Curtis summed up for him. "Wait until the two biggest opponents wear each other out and then use an intact force to wipe out whoever's left standing…" she turned her gaze on her subordinates. "Your hastiness would have proven costly indeed."

Harry knew he had to act quickly now. "My colleagues are merely anxious to find out who to fight," Harry interceded smoothly. "We are military men, and we have been attacked. Given that I have shot down the possibility of attacking either of our major foes, they have a right to feel that way."

Curtis gave him a shrewd smile. "Nice save, White," she commended him lightly. "Very well then, if not the Ministry or the Death Eaters, who should feel the brunt of our wrath?"

It was Harry's turn to give the group a cunning smile as he raised one finger. "The Spanish, of course," he said plainly.

Even Curtis started as Harry made his pronouncement. None of them had been expecting _anyone_ to recommend keeping the war on the Iberian Peninsula going in this state of affairs.

"You can't be serious!" Curtis exclaimed disbelievingly. "With the sorry state the government is in? And the Ministry sniffing about like a pack of hyenas?"

"My nephew is deadly serious," Sirius spoke up. "So far, we've done a great job of keeping up appearances for the public, and the mass media is cooperating with us on damage control. Economically, we're bound to take a severe hit sooner or later, but for now we've managed to…_convince_ the more prominent businesses to proceed normally. Furthermore, any stories or videos on the Internet regarding the extent of the damage done to London have been tracked down and eliminated by the government's best computer hackers, but that won't last. However, the longer we wait to give the appearance of everything being fine on the executive level, the harder it gets to retain popular ignorance. The moment we lose that, faith in our government would crumble. Fighting the Spanish is not something a weakened government would do, thus we must do it."

"When strong, appear weak; when weak, appear strong," Harry paraphrased. "All warfare is based on deception."

"Sun Tzu," Curtis recognized immediately. "You're saying we should use the war with Spain as a cover of our current governmental crisis?"

"Precisely," Harry confirmed, nodding. "Our military is the single branch of the government that has suffered the least casualties in these attacks correct?"

One of the officers nearest to Curtis—a Colonel—nodded. "The forces in Spain were not hit at all during the attacks," he reported to the crowd. "All of their command structures, except for those already KIA or MIA, have been accounted for."

"Then we, as the military, must keep up appearances for the government," Harry concluded. "Seeing it from an outside perspective, if five hundred thousand men suddenly pulled out of a war they were ostensibly winning, wouldn't it look mightily suspicious and weak?" he proposed. "Thus, in order to maintain a façade of stability, we must continue our war with Spain."

"But what about the Ministry? Or the Death Eaters?" insisted one of the more vengeful-sounding officers. "They should be brought to heel for what they've done!"

"Neither will be in any position to do anything should we proceed with my recommendation," Harry assured the man. "Firstly, the war with Spain would warn the two that we are still militarily ready and able. Secondly, it implies that there is a stable command structure capable of making government-level decisions."

"How would that deter the Ministry? The second reason, I mean," Curtis asked.

Harry glanced up to Sirius. "Uncle?"

Sirius nodded. "Most people like to think, with a great deal of good reason, that the Crown has been a symbolic institution for the past hundred years or so," he said. "While this is practically true on every level of government we're all familiar with, my friends the Potters have managed to unearth the crucial detail that it also happens to be the hinging point of the agreement that formally created what is now the Ministry of Magic and its relation to the non-magical government."

"I don't follow," Curtis panned.

"The agreement between the Ministry of Magic and the Crown government of William Pitt the Elder stipulates that the Ministry of Magic is restricted from intervening in the governance of non-magical peoples so long as there is still a monarch enthroned," Sirius explained to the group. "Meaning that as long as there is a King who can appoint a Prime Minister, the Ministry of Magic cannot take over the our government."

"Couldn't they just disregard the treaty?" asked someone in the group.

Harry shook his head. "This is no normal treaty," he told them. "This was a magical treaty, with magical repercussions promised against those who would violate the agreement."

"What repercussions?" asked Curtis warily.

Harry shrugged. "I don't know them myself, but considering the importance of the situation the treaty was resolving, I imagine the repercussions against transgressors would be pretty dire," he speculated. "And it's not held against mages only, either. From what my uncle's informed me, we are unable to move against the Ministry of Magic so long as they remain loyal to the Crown."

"Meaning that we cannot pre-emptively attack them," Curtis finished the thought for him.

Harry smiled. "We won't have to," he told her. "If they throw the first blow without violating the agreement, which is possible, then we can act appropriately."

"They would still have the momentum," Curtis shot back.

"Not if we plan accordingly," Harry countered. "They are not an unstoppable force, General," he then smiled nastily. "But, with enough planning, we _can_ become an immoveable object."

"And why do you think they'll be the first to break ties?" demanded another Colonel.

"It is only logical," Harry replied simply. "If we carry out the plan I have put forth before you, the Ministry would become aware of the fact that our power is barely diminished," he explained. "If the war with Spain concludes in our favour, that means that we would have a five hundred thousand-strong army comprised of veterans at the ready to unleash their vengeful fury upon those we blame for the attacks on London."

"And they'll assume it'll be them and not the Death Eaters?" guessed Curtis curiously.

"As far as we can honestly say, we have no idea who the Death Eaters are comprised of or where they are," he said with a conspiring smirk. "In fact, we have never had their existence independently confirmed, having only been informed of them via the Ministry's own channels. Given the fact that the Ministry has already proven itself to be, at best, reticent in stepping in when their mages get rowdy in non-magical locations, who's to say that these Death Eaters aren't just an excuse they use to justify why they're unable to crack down on rogue mages?"

"But we know they aren't," pointed out Curtis.

Harry nodded in agreement. "But the public doesn't know that," he countered. "The Ministry, whether it's in the short run or the long run, will eventually become our enemy. This is fact; their power structures and civil traditions are simply too obsolete and incompatible with the real world to coexist with ours. In fact, this is a problem that has already cropped up elsewhere, if I'm not mistaken."

The Colonel who'd relayed the news about the British forces in Spain nodded, and Harry got a feeling that this man was probably General Curtis' personal aide. "Individual governments have been good at keeping the internal strife a secret from the world, but we do know that there have been major uprisings in Cyprus, most of East and Central Africa, and throughout the ASEAN nations. There are rumours of mage-civilian strife in the Balkans, but no real confirmation one way or another, and the same applies to Central and South America," he reported.

"You see?" he noted to the group. "Our societies are too different for simple coexistence. Eventually, we would clash anyway—best to have a reason in mind for _when_ it happen."

"What the Lieutenant Colonel has said rings true, General," noted her apparent aide. "My humble recommendation would be to follow through with his plan."

Curtis thumbed her chin pensively as she kept her piercing stare on the mage before her. Even lying on a bed as he was, she couldn't shake off the feeling that he was still probably more powerful than every other person in the room put together, which in turn confounded her. Why would such a powerful man side with normal people like herself? Sure, he seemed to have a grudge against the Ministry, but could he not have caused more trouble for them from within the segregated society rather than from without? Something just didn't seem right to her, but he had managed to present a coherent and plausible plan, and the other officers, from what she saw, had been swayed to his side through his seemingly impenetrable logic.

"I wonder if your plan is as foolproof as you make it out to be, White," she mused out loud with an amused smile. "But it's better than anything else we've got at this time, so we'll follow through with it," she declared as she lifted her uninjured arm and pointed at him with two fingers. "In fact, as of right now, you're being promoted to Brigadier, in charge of both continuing the mage recruitment program and coordinating the nation's strategy against the internal threats of the Death Eaters and the Ministry of Magic."

Her sudden pronouncement of his promotion stunned Harry. Had the government truly suffered such a blow that this woman sitting before him could arbitrarily dish out promotions like that?

Sirius, for his part, seemed calm about the pronouncement—too calm, in fact. "My nephew is speechless from his gratitude, General," he spoke up for him smoothly. "I will have my remaining colleagues ratify the promotion as soon as possible."

Curtis cast an unimpressed glance at Sirius before nodding. "Just make sure you pencil pushers understand that we need our new King enthroned ASAP," she warned him. "Field Marshal Anderson may have delegated running the military here at home to me, but I don't have the power to crown a King."

Harry nodded absently, having now received the necessary information that explained why Curtis was acting as she pleased without reservations. She had apparently been appointed _de facto_ leader of the Territorial forces.

Sirius put a hand over his heart and bowed ever so slightly in gentlemanly acknowledgement. "Of course, General," he said smoothly. "I will see to it that the process is expedited as quickly as possible."

The next few minutes essentially comprised of the necessary niceties as the group began to filter out of the room with Curtis at the lead, leaving Sirius and Harry alone in the room. Once the door closed, Sirius unclasped his hands and cupped his chin pensively as he stared at the door.

"That went well," he mused out loud.

Harry nodded wearily, the toll on his recuperating body finally hitting him. "Fortunately, it went better than expected," he noted. "I hadn't imagined that I'd get promoted, that's for sure."

"It serves us well," Sirius stated. "Independent command of the Military Mage program means that we incorporate the troops from Europe into a coherent regiment much quicker than we'd hoped."

"More importantly," Harry added, "the promotion gets me in the higher circles of planning."

"An area you excel in, apparently," Sirius noted amusedly. "The part about neutralizing the Ministry with the war in Spain was a nice touch, though I'm happy I was forewarned by our planning session, or else I might not have been much use as support."

"That's not my only plan," Harry stated then with a confident smile.

"I thought as much," Sirius spoke with a resigned, yet amused tone. "Should I be worried about collateral damage?"

"None," Harry told him confidently.

Sirius looked intrigued now. "Okay, you've got my interest; what's this big plan you've got?"

Harry leaned his head on a fist, his confident smile still stuck in place. "Wang Yun presents his daughter to court; infatuated Lu Bu slays Dong Zhuo for the Great Han," he spoke cryptically.

Sirius blinked, his expression blank. "I don't get it," he panned.

Harry laughed. "Look it up," he recommended. "When you do, you'll understand."

* * *

**Bulford Camp, United Kingdom, June 15****th****, 2010 (D-Day +505)…**

Harry had not been looking forward to this meeting ever since he'd first realized he'd have to have it.

"This wasn't part of the deal, human," snarled the leader of the goblin banker delegation sitting before him in his office. "Our involvement in this affair was supposed to be strictly confidential! Instead, the Ministry has been hounding us for explanations regarding the presence of goblin steel in the hands of the one person they hate more than that pathetic Dark Lord!"

Harry sighed. "I'm well aware of the straits this puts you in, Master Ranin," Harry spoke soothingly. "Believe me, it was not my intention to reveal our partnership in such an irresponsible fashion, but my hand was forced."

Ranin pointed at Harry with a crooked finger, his sharp features contorted in anger. "And yet irresponsible it was!" he seethed. "Now the Ministry is asking questions, and my superiors want to know what you have in mind to get us out of this problem!"

Well, on the bright side, at least he wasn't being threatened with having goblin support withdrawn. "There's already a plan in motion to divert the Ministry's attention, Master Ranin," Harry assured the banker. "It will take time to take effect, but I believe you should be fine until then."

The goblin snorted derisively. "That's it?" he asked with an ugly sneer. "You reveal to the Ministry our partnership in such a fashion that we cannot deny it with any form of credibility, and all we're to do is take your word for it that a solution is in the works? Do you take us for fools, Mister Potter?"

Not fools, just greedy bastards, Harry mused. "Of course not, Master Ranin," he replied calmly. "The plan is quite simple: I intend to paralyze the Ministry by forcing them to initiate a witch hunt, so to speak, for insiders and leaks."

The goblin narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "How would that help us?" he asked dangerously.

"A Ministry that is unsure whom amongst themselves they can trust is incapable of functioning," Harry reasoned. "Thus, any investigations would have their credibility thrown into doubt, therefore allowing us to mire the proceedings against you in red tape while we continue carrying out the grand scheme."

The goblin envoy was silent as he listened to Harry explain his plan. He was silent for a few more moments after that as well, before finally speaking up again. "You intend to prey on the Minister's distrust towards Dumbledore and his hatred for Death Eaters," the goblin deduced with a nasty smile. "Very shrewd, Mister Potter; very clever."

"I do aim to please, Master Ranin," Harry said with a controlled, confident smile.

The goblin grinned toothily at him, giving Harry a full view of the creature's sharp teeth—it did not make for a pleasant sight. "Unfortunately, Mister Potter, that will not be enough," the goblin then added, surprising Harry.

"I beg your pardon?" Harry asked as he leaned forward in disbelief. He'd just handed them a get out of trouble for free card and they were asking for more?

"Whether your little plan works is, unfortunately, far too uncertain for our liking," Ranin explained silkily—or, at least, as silkily as a goblin could talk. "While I am overjoyed that you have not forgotten of our partnership, I'm afraid my superiors want greater assurances that the catastrophe in Spain will not occur again and in so doing jeopardize our position in this affair."

Harry narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the goblin—this neither sounded good nor sat well with him. "What does the Director want?" he asked bluntly.

The goblin grinned viciously. Undoubtedly, this was the game face he used for every business deal in which he had gotten the upper hand. "The Director understands that your little…_revolution_…demands funding, and we are glad to continue with our contributions, but on a conditional basis," he laid out. "Simply put, we want the ability to exercise a veto on any plan that we deem dangerous to the Goblin Nation. In addition to the veto, you will provide us with summaries of every plan you intend to take so that we may weigh the financial burdens _ahead_ of time, rather than on the spot."

Harry had to control himself to avoid gaping openly. Before, the goblins, being fully aware that a leak of their partnership could spell their doom, had been content with remaining a silent, invisible partner in his plans. With this veto, however, he would have to essentially cater to them, on penalty of losing quite a bit of funding. Certainly, his parents, Sirius, and the Baron Warwick also funded his schemes, but the Goblins were a _major_ source of income. Many of the bribes that Sirius had used to buy out the loyalty of many a Ministry employee were paid for by Goblin gold. The Goblins had been the ones to provide the smuggling route to get the disaffected mages out of the country for Military Mage training on the Continent. Hell, the Goblins were the ones who provided Sirius with up to date information about the financial comings and goings of the Ministry of Magic!

Now, with London reeling from Death Eater attacks and three quarters of the government wiped out, he would be needing their funding again just to help rebuild the nation's government!

And what was worse, they knew it.

"No veto, but I'll agree on the up to date plan summaries," Harry counter-offered.

Ranin narrowed his beady eyes. "Veto, and we'll forego the summaries."

Harry scoffed. "If you want the veto, Master Ranin, you'll need to pay blood for it," he warned him. "No veto and I lower the amount of funding you need to provide by a third _and_ provide the summaries."

Ranin growled. "We get the veto, raise the funding provided by _two _thirds _and _forego the summaries."

Harry narrowed his eyes; it was a good counter offer, but it was missing something. "Fine; you get the veto, raise the funding by two thirds, _and_ you give me access to _one_ Goblin Honour Squad _and_ you forego the summaries."

Ranin's growl turned into a full blown snarl. "Unthinkable!" he spat. "Those squads are there solely to protect the people of the Goblin Nation, not to fight a human's battles!"

"Giving you a veto on every major plan, Master Ranin, would put _my_ people's well-being in _your_ hands," Harry reminded him. "And considering our present situation, that means I'm putting a _hell_ of a lot more on the line than you are if we agree on this."

The goblin snarled but remained quiet, properly chastised by his human counterpart. "This was not what the Director had in mind," he said eventually. "I will need to consult with him and the Board before I agree to these terms," he concluded as he hoped down from his tall chair and made for the door.

Harry nodded as he stood to see the goblin envoy out of the room. "Of course. I understand." He really did. What he was asking was something unprecedented in human-goblin relations. A Goblin Honour Squad was not one your run-of-the-mill militia units; it was consisted of the very best the Goblins had to offer and, more importantly, its members were all people who _mattered_ in Goblin society. Anyone who'd ever occupied the post of Director or held a position on the Board had previously been part of an Honour Squad. Therefore, what he was asking for really were not crack troops—even if that was what they were.

What he was asking for were hostages.

Many would disapprove, of course, but Harry couldn't bring himself to care. Hostages assured him that the Goblins wouldn't stonewall a plan out of spite or nitpick where it wasn't necessary. It would assure him of their loyalty to his cause, and if a bad reputation was the price, he was willing to shoulder it.

His eyes slowly went from the door to his desk as the thought deepened his commitment to his present course. There, hidden in plain sight, was a manuscript that his old war comrade, Albert Hughes, had forwarded him. According to the letter that had accompanied it, it was a treatise on strategy that he had compiled by drawing ideas from various sources. It had only taken Harry the first chapter to notice the difference between conventional treatises on warfare and Hughes'.

Where modern warfare advocated war based on the "rules of war" and the binding treaties on human rights and so forth, Hughes rejected all of that. In Harry's opinion, the man had either lost his sanity due to the war in Spain or he'd seen something truly mortifying, because Harry couldn't imagine what would have driven Hughes to write this…heresy who's premise was nicely summed up in the first chapter title.

Chaos Before Peace: The Dark Art of War.

Harry chuckled. At least Hughes had the excuse of having been affected by a year and a half of war.

For Harry, who had been pulled away from the chaos, what was his excuse for becoming a heretic?

* * *

**London, United Kingdom; June 21****st****, 2010 (D-Day +511)…**

When Harry had summoned her to his hospital room weeks ago, she had never dreamed that his reason for doing so would be to finally grant her the trust she had sought from him for the past year.

Of course, she had been as ecstatic as anyone that he had survived the trials and tribulations he had gone through since his capture, and had warmly greeted him when she'd seen him for the first time since the attack. However, deep within her, Josefina knew that she had still resented him a little bit for not inviting her into his world as he obviously did to others.

That resentment was now long gone.

Using a small, unbelievably uncommon, ovular artefact that her saviour's uncle had sworn would allow her to witness hidden magical phenomena, she had taken to her task like fish to water. First, she had been told to seek out a particular man within the mage community, and that had been the hardest part for all of two days. Since then, she had managed to compile what she humbly thought was an accurate picture of the target's daily routines, and had taken to shadowing the person everywhere he went within the area she now knew as Diagon Alley.

It took her all of a day to understand the person's tastes, as he seemed to be as repetitive as a well-oiled clock. Once she had that information, she took her job to the next step and prettied herself up as best she could, while at the same time changing her appearance such that anyone whom she might have met during the fiasco in Spain wouldn't recognize her.

Harry had been particularly insistent that she had to pass as a mage, so she had taken care to research the fashion styles in use and consulted with Harry's uncle, who seemed knowledgeable enough about the topic to help her pass as a normal mage girl. Unfortunately, that only got her into the Alley without trouble—for her task to work, she would have to become more than just a normal girl. It helped that the tailors seemed indecently interested in helping her out in picking out clothes that would accentuate her looks.

Thus, by the time she had reached the fifth day of her task, she had been ready and had begun executing the plan. The first step had been to catch the target's attention, which she pulled off flawlessly when she "accidentally" bumped into him at the Herbology store and began apologizing profusely to him while at the same time babbling out Herbology facts as she "tried" to explain her "distraction."

It worked like a charm. The man had become immediately interested the moment she began rattling off the Herbology knowledge, and combined with her practised innocent look and her cute "shyness," he had become smitten, going so far as to wave off her apology and inviting her to have a drink.

She'd had to act out the shy girl routine, of course; stuttering in surprise, babbling in a low voice as she seemingly debated with herself whether or not to go for it, etc…In the end, however, she of course accepted the invitation and they went on their first date that night. It was…nice, in a word. She felt nothing for the man, of course (hell, learning all those Herbology facts had been nothing but a chore to her), but he had been gentlemanly towards her and kind, which _almost_ made her feel bad about what she was planning to do.

The next few days went similarly, except that on the second date, she initiated the second step of her task—seeing his workplace.

It had taken some convincing—hell, she'd had to use every ounce of her acting abilities to get him to believe her that the reason she couldn't use magic was because she was currently beset by some magical ailment—but he had eventually given in, no doubt wanting to show off to her.

It was her very first foray into the Ministry of Magic, and Josefina couldn't help but feel like she suddenly understood Harry's animosity towards it. Everything about the building; from the décor, to the people, to the very architecture itself, screamed self-importance. It was like the entire building was a monument to the magic user's ego.

Regardless of her distaste, however, she played the awed newcomer part perfectly as she was led into the Auror Office where he said he worked. She had, of course, deeply researched the Aurors via Harry and the books he'd ordered from the family collection, but nothing really prepared her for the…_banality_ of the place.

It was a mistake, in retrospect, to expect that because people used magic, everything they had would be different—including their workplaces. The Auror Office was perhaps the standing example that this wasn't true at all. In fact, it was arranged almost identically to any modern police precinct. Tables tended to be put by twos so that partners could work in close proximity to each other, there were cubicles here and there, and the offices for the more senior Aurors (she guessed) were given separate rooms.

"This is it, where the magic happens, so to speak," her date told her with an affable grin. She personally wanted to groan at the horrible line but kept her composure and gave him a shy smile that he seemingly took as approval of his status. Men were like that—always proud to gloat about their awesome jobs to potential mates.

Of course, having lived in a warzone and actually lived among soldiers, Josefina wasn't as easily impressed. But, the character she was playing was.

"It's…very loud," she noted; and it was. There weren't phones around to make a dreadful noise, but instead each desk was rigged with what seemed to be a small device that emitted a shrill noise every once in a while.

"Those are our dark magic detector alarms," he told her as he noticed her gaze. "Lets us know whenever someone uses Dark Magic, though it's a lot less accurate on the where."

Josefina felt the hairs on her nape stand up as a chilling thought crossed her mind. "Does every Ministry have one?" she asked, doing a commendable job in keeping her fear out of her voice.

Her date shrugged. "I think so," he answered half-heartedly. "I mean, I know the Spanish do, which was why the fact that they missed Potter's presence in their country for over a year was kind of a scandal in here."

"Why didn't they find him?" she asked, truly curious.

"Apparently, some of the Muggle weaponry interferes with our signal—the big, fiery stuff," he explained. "At least, that's about as much as I can understand. The technicians are always babbling on with words no one but them really understand."

She giggled. "They _are_ a bit incomprehensible, aren't they?"

He laughed—it was a nice sound to her ears. Again, she felt a little sorry for the man, especially since he'd done nothing but treat her right during the brief time they'd been together. Still, the mission came first. "Where do you work, specifically?" she asked curiously.

She watched him point to where a woman with…_pink?_...hair was sitting at a desk, glaring at a piece of what looked to be parchment. "See the odd duck trying to make her parchment burst into flames with her mind?" he asked humorously. "She's my partner…err…colleague partner, that is," he hastily added. "My desk is the one in front of hers."

She giggled again, actually amused by the way he'd scrambled to explain his relationship with the woman with pink hair. "She seems…eccentric," she said innocently.

He laughed again. "She is that," he agreed. "Tough superior to have, though," he noted. "Eh, that reminds me of the time I got reamed for apparently asking inappropriate questions to a woman we were investigating."

She didn't have to act to narrow her eyes suspiciously at him. That was all natural. "What did you say?" she asked slowly, a hint of fake jealousy in her tone.

He chuckled nervously as he scratched at his nape. "Well, like I said, we were investigating this woman for a…case," he said, suddenly being evasive about the details of said case. "And I asked her whether she'd had any contact with a man we were looking for after they'd graduated together from their school. She'd already told us they'd had a bad breakup, so Tonks—that's her over there—took exception to my…insensitive query."

Josefina nodded, soaking up the information and committing it to memory for her report later on. Even if she couldn't find a use for some of the information she relayed back, there was the odd chance that maybe Harry, or someone he knew, could.

"So she's your superior?" she asked.

He made a 'sort-of' gesture with his hand. "Not quite," he replied. "She's senior in our partnership, so I guess that's right, but technically, we all have only one superior, and that's the Head of the Auror Office," he explained, adding a sneer when he mentioned the title.

She immediately sprung on that, of course. "You sound like you don't like him," she noted innocently.

"He's a right bast—irritating man," he quickly amended himself as he realized he was talking to his girlfriend. "Arrogant like no one's business and undeservedly so. Do you know how he got to that position?" he asked her, and the tone of his voice told her he expected her not to know. "Turned in his own father, he did; good old Lucius Malfoy himself."

Now that was a name she was familiar with, both from her research and Sirius' explanation of the situation in the Magical world. "_The_ Lucius Malfoy?" she asked bewilderedly. "And the Head is his _son_?"

He gave her a small, knowing smile. "Really throws you for a loop, doesn't it?" he asked rhetorically. "But it's the truth, Merlin help us all. One day, little Draco Malfoy just walks in with his stunned father levitated in front of him, declaring that he had personally sought to make him pay for his crimes."

"Isn't that a good thing?" she asked, actually somewhat curious as to why so much distrust was being heaped on the Head of the Auror Office if he'd actually done something good.

Her date scoffed derisively. "It would have been, had the wily old ferret had decided to stick around in jail for more than a week," he said. "That's how long he was in Azkaban: one week. On the eighth day, _exactly_, the guards report him missing, along with several other dangerous inmates."

"So you think he was planted there?" she asked.

"The man's old, but he's not incapable," her date assured her. "It doesn't stretch the imagination that he got his son to bring him in and use the opportunity to break out a few old friends of his."

"Wouldn't that put his son in danger of being prosecuted for aiding in a jail break?" she pressed.

"Nah, Draco got the best part of the deal," he told her. "In return for bringing in his father, Draco got promoted from being a regular Auror like me to Scrimgeour's right hand man. Then, when the elections happened last year, Scrimgeour got bumped to Minister, and guess who inherited his position as Head of the Auror Office?"

"Malfoy," she supplied unnecessarily, although it seemed to stroke her date's ego that his 'woman' was capable to keep up with the conversation.

"Exactly. Worst part is, Scrimgeour doesn't even like the guy," he noted as he continued to lead her around the office, taking great care not to get overheard. "His promotion, far as we can tell, was mostly a political move on Scrimgeour's part. Worked too. The problem is, now _we_ Aurors have to deal with him and he's been stonewalling any decisive action against the Death Eaters, allegedly because of logistical problems." He scoffed again to show what he thought of that.

"I heard Dumbledore supports his tenure," she slipped in right then, taking great care to check his facial tells regarding the information.

He didn't disappoint. She saw a flash of anger on his face at the name before it was ruthlessly suppressed and concealed behind a neutral expression. "Whom did you hear that from?" he asked evenly.

She shrugged. "A few friends from work like to gossip," she lied. "It came up randomly when we were discussing the Ministry's efforts in containing the Death Eaters and the whole silly situation with the Muggles."

Her date sneered at the information. "Wouldn't surprise me," he grumbled nastily. "The old man seems to believe everyone deserves a second chance…and a third, and fourth, and so forth," he muttered the last part angrily. "Never pays attention to those who've suffered, just those who 'strayed from the path,'" he ranted, making air quotes to show what he thought of the Headmaster of Hogwarts' rhetoric. "Pack of lies is what it is."

Josefina quietly listened to him let out his frustrations, always keeping one eye on the Head of the Auror Office's door. It wasn't until she saw a shadow move behind the opaque glass door that she made her move. Gasping theatrically at a low vocal volume, she made a show of seeing her watch and paling. "Oh bollocks, I'm late!" she fretted.

It served well enough to shock her date out of his rage-induced trance. "Late? Late to what?" he asked confusedly.

"I'm meeting an old friend for tea," she explained—though she omitted the part where the old friend was the notorious Sirius Black and that the reason they were meeting was for an update. She raised herself up by the tip of her feet and planted a kiss on the corner of his mouth. "I'm so sorry for leaving you like this!" she apologized hastily.

He smiled kindly down at her. "It's alright, I understand. I'll Floo you later?" he suggested.

She smiled back at him. "I'd like that," she replied before walking away and giving him a small wave of goodbye as she made her way towards the elevator. Of course, she also happened to take the scenic route to the elevator, having been given the perfect excuse to do so by a small congregation of Aurors blocking the more direct path to it. Said route brought her straight past the Head of the Auror Office's door, just as it opened.

Pretending not to notice, she walked right into the Head Auror himself, Draco Malfoy, as he exited his office. Keeping up with her act, she made as if her momentum had been too much for her and fell forward, getting instinctively caught by the blonde man.

"Oi, watch it!" she heard him snap at her irritably. Not the speech of a born and bred aristocrat, certainly, but there was no doubt in her mind that the sharp voice belonged to the Head Auror.

She quickly scampered back to her feet and gave him a slight bow of apology. "I'm _so_ sorry!" she apologized profusely. "I didn't…I wasn't…"

Having gotten his first look at her, sans her face, Malfoy seemed to rather inflate. "Don't you know who I am, girl?" he sneered at her. "I'm the Head Auror here, and you're not one of my subordinates. Care to explain why you're here and why you _dared_ to run into me?"

This time, she raised her head and cowered back, keeping up the image of an intimidated, powerless young woman. "_I'm_ _s-so sorry!_" she apologized again. "I…I was visiting my b-boyfriend, sir…I-I was distracted!"

Apparently, Malfoy hadn't been expecting the person who'd bumped into him to turn out to be an attractive young woman. While she noticed his shoulders start to slump slightly at the mention of a boyfriend, they were quickly rising again in a show of determination as she heard steps coming closer from behind.

"What's going on here?" angrily demanded her boyfriend as he approached them. "What are you doing to my girlfriend, sir?"

She saw Malfoy's eyes narrow dangerously. "Watch your tone, Longbottom, if you care to keep your job for another day," he warned the intruder. "Your little airhead of a girlfriend managed to run into me, which begs the question: why is she here to begin with?"

Her boyfriend didn't back down from the challenge. "I wanted to show her what I did, so she'd know what she was getting into," he all but snarled at his superior. "And that's all the explanation you're going to get from me!" he said with finality, gripping Josefina's arm and pulling her towards him. "Let's go, Lizzie," he told her, calling her by her fake identity.

She nodded submissively towards him and quietly got behind him, though she allowed her eyes to linger suggestively towards Malfoy, who didn't miss it for one second.

"You _will_ respect me, Longbottom," Malfoy called out to him. "I am your superior, and thus I _will_ have your obedience!"

Josefina wanted to jump in joy as her boyfriend stopped and turned to face the Head Auror, _just_ as Malfoy returned her glances with a suggestive leer. She could _feel_ the jealousy start to bubble within Neville, and it all worked _perfectly_ within the grander plan.

"I don't answer to one of Dumbledore's dogs," Neville snarled, causing many an Auror to gasp in shock at the significant accusation. While the Ministry and Dumbledore weren't coming to blows just yet, it _had_ been made illegal to report to anyone outside the Ministry hierarchy unless given written permission by the Minister's Office. It was a well known fact that the Minister _never_ gave permission for anyone to report to Hogwarts and anyone involved with the school.

Josefina watched, with inner delight, as Malfoy reddened in either guilty embarrassment or insulted fury. "How dare you!" he cried out. "I'll have your badge for this, Longbottom!"

Neville gave him the two-fingered salute. "Not if I get yours first, Malfoy!" he snapped back. "Reporting to the old man is a prison-worthy offence, and I'll make _sure_ the Minister hears all about it!"

"You have no proof!"

Josefina smiled. That was true, but it didn't matter. Heck, the rumour that Dumbledore was supporting Draco Malfoy's tenure was in itself a fantasy made up by Harry. Neither he, nor Sirius had any idea if that was true, but who cared? With the political ambience currently permeating the Ministry's relations with Hogwarts, neither side would believe the other's claims. Dumbledore could deny being involved with Draco Malfoy until the cows came home and the Minister wouldn't trust his word. The Minister, for his part, could claim any sort of proof—real or not—and Dumbledore's faction would cry foul all year long.

Of course, there was an easy way to clear the mix-up: get Draco Malfoy to testify under _Veritaserum_ regarding his allegiances, which was why there was a contingency plan ready to deal with that problem. That wasn't part of her job, however, so she dutifully kept her sights on her own mission—to sow discord before the Ministry and Dumbledore could mend fences under the banner of a united front regarding the "Muggle Crisis," as they called it.

Josefina observed the growing row between the two men and smiled internally, while keeping a frightened expression and uncertain body language externally.

So far, so good.

* * *

**Bulford Camp, United Kingdom, June 23****rd****, 2010 (D-Day +513)…**

"Isn't this a little…ancient?" asked Sirius as he accompanied his 'nephew' on his inspection rounds around the camp.

Harry smiled as unified grunts perforated the still air of the Salisbury Plains. To his left, even as he walked past them, were hundreds of people wielding blunted staffs as they performed repetitive movements.

"It is, from a certain point of view," Harry allowed as he nodded, pleased, towards one of the instructors, who returned the favour with a grateful salute.

"They're wielding wooden _staffs_, Harry," Sirius pointed out, glad that no one else was around, allowing him to drop the false identities they kept up still. "How on earth is that _not_ ancient?"

"Because you're assuming the point of this training is to teach them to use a staff as a weapon," Harry explained.

"Isn't it?"

Harry shook his head. "Of course not. In an age of firearms and cannons, what possible good would a staff do in a fire fight?" he asked amusedly. "The point of this exercise, Sirius, is to teach them something they've rarely had to use during their lives: discipline."

"I rather think using magic requires a fair deal of discipline," Sirius replied a little indignantly.

"Self-discipline, yes," Harry conceded. "But military? It's one thing to be able to channel energies through your body, Sirius, and it's quite another to be able to move in perfect concert with five hundred other people."

"How is that a necessary skill for Military Mages?" Sirius asked, curious. "You set the bar, Harry, and you were pretty independent on the field."

"If that's what you believe, you're dead wrong," Harry sounded amused. "A Military Mage must be capable of working with units as though it were their own limb. Alone, what am I? A destroyer, sure, but I am only one man. In an assault, I am essentially useless by myself unless the point is to demolish an entire area. In a defence, all the enemy has to do is kill me and the magic's over."

Sirius crossed his arms pensively. "I see your point."

"Mages are raised to be independent," Harry continued. "That's the way the Ministry educates them. How many collaborative works of magic have you ever heard of, Sirius?" he asked. "How many spells required more than one person to achieve? When Aurors hunt down criminals, how many times have you seen the takedown team number more than two, barring Dark Lords? The answer is always quite low."

"So you want them to be able to work well with others," Sirius summed up.

Harry gave a 'sort-of' gesture. "To a certain point," he allowed. "Independence on the field is a commendable thing to have, so I don't want them to completely forget that. What I want them to do is recognize that they are now part of a larger unit and thus they must think of the grander scheme whenever they make decisions."

"Why not put them through normal military drills, then?" proposed Sirius. "I'm sure there are a few trainers out there who would _love_ to get their hands on mages for physical training."

Harry laughed. "Quite so, but that's exactly why I don't hand them over to someone else or put them through what normal soldiers go through," he motioned towards one of the mages training—a slightly overweight older man. "See that man? How could I ask him to go from doing little exercise to doing strenuous exercise from one day to the next? His body wouldn't be able to handle it. This method ensures that they are slowly eased into regular physical conditioning."

Sirius shrugged. "You know best, I'm sure," he conceded evenly.

Harry smiled slightly at the comment. "What about your side of the plan, Sirius?" he asked, nodding in satisfaction at another good display of unit discipline and receiving another thankful salute. "How are our…bedbugs doing?"

Sirius frowned. "From what I've been sent, it looks like we're doing a _lot_ of damage to Muggle-Mage relations," he told his godson. "The Balkans in particular seem to be heating up quite a bit, and don't even get me started on the situation in Africa."

Harry noted that Sirius' voice trailed off at the end of his report and quickly made the logical connections to understand why. "You feel uneasy about this newest ploy of mine," he observed idly.

Sirius didn't even sound surprised that his godson had hit his fears right on the nail. "The point of our enterprise is to reveal magic to the world and force both sides to coexist," he pointed out. "So why are we using our people to fan hatred between both sides?"

Harry finally stopped his walking and turned to face the cadre of mages training on the open field, ostensibly inspecting them in their training. "Sirius, how powerful would you say our military is right now?" he asked out of the blue.

Sirius blinked and thought about the question for a moment before giving a tentative answer. "Accounting for missile armaments, the Royal Navy, Air Force, and Army…I'd put us at about first place on the continent, especially what with having five hundred thousand combat veterans still on the field in Spain," he guessed. "Why?"

"Who would have the second most powerful military, then?" Harry continued, ignoring Sirius' question.

"The French," Sirius replied without thinking.

"Third?"

"Germany," Sirius supplied again, quickly getting vexed from the impromptu game of trivia that Harry had unleashed on him. "What's your point, Harry?"

Harry brought up a fist and uncurled his index finger, his expression pensive. "If we calculate the likely result of a war with France, we could theoretically assume a victory over our opponent, but not without significant cost to our manpower and arsenal," he theorized out loud before uncurling another finger. "Second calculation: after said hypothetical war with France, a threatened Germany would undoubtedly seek to curb our rising power by opposing us, undoubtedly seeking to rectify the balance of power by enlisting the help of Austria and Italy. Such a war, combining the military resources of one rising superpower and two medium-class states against a single military superpower, would not be insurmountable, but would come at a catastrophic cost to our resources."

"But that would eliminate both of the major threats in Europe," Sirius reminded him. "Who else would sanely oppose us after such wins?"

Harry smiled secretively, as though he knew something Sirius didn't. "Very well, then; we come to the third calculation," he humoured his godfather. "France and Germany, along with its allies, stand defeated, at significant cost to our military resources. Poland and most of Eastern Europe stand defenceless before the might of our nation," he laid out calmly. "Two choices stand before them: submit, or fight."

"Obviously, we could threaten them into submission," Sirius supplied as though it were common sense.

"Could we?" retorted Harry calmly. He uncurled a third finger. "Domination of Eastern, Central, and Western Europe would make us the indisputable masters of the continent, and allowing us free reign over such an expansive population would mean the inevitable rise of a massive military force, backed by a solid and fully integrated economy," he rationalized. "So, third calculation: who would gain the most by aiding Eastern Europe to stand against us?"

"Russia, of course."

Harry smiled as he glanced to the side, catching sight of an approaching white-haired man. "Ah, speaking of bedbugs, here comes one of our best."

Sirius looked the same way Harry was and also recognized the approaching figure, though it startled him somewhat to find out this particular man was in his godson's employ—not just because of who he was, but also due to his rather…eccentric reputation.

"Report, Master Lovegood," Harry ordered with a knowing smile, his hand outstretched invitingly.

Xenophilius Lovegood, the infamous editor of the Quibbler, grinned right back, shrugging off the knapsack he'd been carrying over his rather garish, neon-yellow robes. "The Russian Ministry of Magic has officially been put under investigation by the Kremlin," he said as he approached. "The Russian President seems to be under the impression that the Ministry has perhaps been…tampering with his advisors. Unfortunately, the media caught wind of this, so the economy's taking another tumble. A clean job, overall."

Harry nodded, pleased with the report. "Well done, Master Lovegood," he praised the older man.

Sirius, for his part, was completely astounded to see the easy interaction between his godson and quite possibly the British Magical society's equivalent to a town fool. When had the two started working together? For that matter, when had they even _met_? But, more importantly…

"Russia?" he asked, surprised. "Why on earth do we need to meddle with Russia? Their economic situation isn't exactly conducive to supporting a major military campaign against us!"

Harry chuckled in amusement at his godfather's protests. "Sirius, if we fought every major power in Western and Central Europe, our military forces would be catastrophically diminished by the time we came to the steps of Warsaw. At that point, Russia would only need to ally with the Eastern European nations and use their considerable manpower to crush whatever's left of our forces. The war would then serve as their method to fix their economic woes."

"More importantly," Xenophilius added with a bright grin. "If every nation in Europe followed our example, we wouldn't just be fighting conventional forces, but Military Mages of their own as well."

Sirius actually took a step back as the full weight of that statement hit him. He'd never assumed that the other European nations would incorporate mages into their own military! In hindsight, that was an incredibly dumb assumption to make, as _any_ rational government would quickly jump on the idea and thus increase their military power substantially at a relatively low cost.

"So in order to prevent the acquisition of Military Mages in other European militaries…" Harry continued, trailing off to see if Sirius could finally put the pieces together.

"…we incite the population of these countries against their mages," Sirius filled in, finally understanding. He slapped a hand to his forehead in astounded realization. "Harry…that's brilliant!"

Harry smiled privately as he continued to ostensibly observe the cadre training, his hands now clasped behind his back. "That's one aspect," he agreed. "But there's another face to this plan. Master Lovegood, if you please?"

Xenophilius nodded obediently. "Of course, sir," he turned to grab something from his knapsack and pulled out two bound scrolls that he tossed to Sirius. "Those contain names of mages wanting to immigrate to Britain," he explained. "The one with the blue seal contains the names of those wanting to live under the jurisdiction of the Ministry, and the one with the red seal want to live under the Crown government."

Sirius' head snapped towards Harry. "I wasn't aware that we were still recruiting," he noted.

"Of course," Harry replied nonchalantly. "For our integrated society to come about, Sirius, we need numbers. The mages from the continent will provide those numbers."

"What about those wanting to live under the Ministry specifically?" Sirius asked, privately noting that said scroll weighed a lot more than its counterpart. "Aren't they just going to be trouble later on?"

Xenophilius chuckled while Harry gave a small smile. "Precisely the point," Harry replied simply.

"I don't follow," Sirius panned.

"The Ministry will rebel, sooner or later," Harry reminded his godfather. "If we invade Europe right now, we would keep having to deal with mage rebellions wherever a Ministry lies intact," he continued. "Thus, instead of dealing with them piece-meal, wouldn't it be better to just lump all our problems in one place?"

Sirius gaped at the absurdity of such a plan. "But the combined force of so many mages would be horrible to fight against!" he protested. "What _should_ be a small insurrection would become a terrible civil war!"

Harry nodded. "Under normal circumstances? Yes," he agreed. "But we have our trump cards."

"Military Mages," Xenophilius supplied with a wide grin.

"Which number less than the combined might of _all_ the world's mages!" Sirius shot back hotly at the eccentric man before returning his attention to Harry's back as his godson kept his watch on the cadre of practising Military Mages. "Harry, this is insane!"

Both men saw Harry's shoulders slump a little, though not in resignation apparently. "Sirius, if we have to fight every Ministry of Magic in every country we face individually, then each skirmish would only serve to indirectly train the others in our tactics, thus making them harder opponents," he explained calmly, his jade green eyes still observing the practicing mages. "However, if we were to gather every potential mage enemy in one place, they would firstly have to deal with multiple language barriers; secondly, they would have to integrate their various command hierarchies and economic systems, which is extraordinarily difficult; thirdly, they would need more resources to feed their populace and maintain their lifestyles; and fourthly, they would have no forewarning as to how we fight magic users. Do you understand now?"

Xenophilius whistled appreciatively while Sirius gawked at his godson's cold rationale. On the surface, it sounded airtight, certainly, and Sirius had to admit that in military matters, he was no good. Politics, rabble-rousing, propaganda? Sure, no problem. Creating and masterminding a region-wide campaign for military domination? Not so much.

Knowing this, Sirius felt his spirits deflate a little as he conceded the argument to his godson. "You sound like you know what you're doing, Harry," he admitted as he glanced at his watch. "So I'll trust you on this plan as well. Unfortunately, however, must dash—got a meeting with one of our other agents in the Magical World."

"Good luck," Harry said by way of farewell, not even bothering to turn around to watch as his godfather Disapparated. However, once he heard the almost silent popping sound, he turned his head slightly to glance at Xenophilius, whose tall figure still towered over him. "What else?"

Xenophilius broke into a wide grin. It wasn't, however, a very nice one. "Chaos at the Ministry in London," he reported gleefully. "Turns out your little pet project managed to rattle a beehive in the Aurors' Office and it's got Scrimgeour on a witch hunt, figuratively speaking."

Harry allowed a smile. "Of course she did," he noted as though it were obvious. "I always pick the right person for the job."

"How did you know she would have this effect?" asked Xenophilius, genuinely curious.

"Right timing, right people, right place," Harry replied easily. "Longbottom, from what a…friend told me, was rather bashful during an interview when the subject of sex came up, telling me he was either inexperienced or extraordinarily shy. Seeing as he's an Auror, that disqualifies the latter option, leaving the first. Being unaccustomed to romantic relationships means he would probably latch on jealously to the first girl to show some attraction to him, making him susceptible to fits of jealous rage. In addition, he is known to hate the Head of the Auror Office, Draco Malfoy, which, summed up with the other qualities I've delineated, makes him the right person."

Xenophilius nodded pensively, scratching his greying goatee pensively. "What about right timing?"

"You've heard that the Ministry was debating the takeover of the Muggle government before the new King was enthroned, yes?"

"Of course," Xenophilius replied dismissively.

"Well it seems Dumbledore and Scrimgeour were at odds about how to proceed," Harry continued. "Dumbledore wanted the Ministry to simply adopt an isolationist attitude, while Scrimgeour wanted to take over our government as per the treaty. Suffice to say, their relations were at their worst point in years, thereby making it easy for us to fuel the flames of distrust with half-baked rumours, thus the right timing."

"And the Auror Office was the right place, wasn't it?" Xenophilius asked for confirmation. "Draco Malfoy, practically the poster boy for second chances but highly unpopular, versus Neville Longbottom, scion of the respected Longbottoms and loyal Ministry Auror, all in one place."

Harry shot Xenophilius a smile from over his shoulder. "Correct. You're getting better at this, Master Lovegood," he praised the older man.

The older man laughed, making one of the trainees on the grounds lose his focus and accidentally trip. One of the trainers immediately rushed over and berated him as the two men watched on. "It's hard not to improve when one is in the presence of a master," he noted with a sly grin. "Makes me wonder whether I really deserve that fancy title you keep giving me."

It was Harry's turn to chuckle, though he kept it silenced by muffling himself with his fist. "I am no master, Master Lovegood," he said humbly. "I have some talent in planning and strategy, but I'm not quite at that level," he said before then adding with a feral smile, "Yet."

Xenophilius laughed.

* * *

**Bulford Camp, United Kingdom, June 25****th****, 2010 (D-Day +515)…**

"Well?"

Harry waited patiently for an answer as he stood gazing at the Salisbury plains beyond the perimeter fence, hands clasped behind his back. Today he was receiving at last an answer from the goblin leadership, as well as possibly finally receiving orders from the authorities in London, a full month after the attack.

Behind him, looking over an official communiqué from London, were Sirius and Xenophilius, on whom Harry had come to depend as his liaison to the Magical World.

"It's as you thought," Xenophilius summed up as he held up the official document and tapped it lightly. "The order's come straight from the King."

"I'd heard about something like this, but I didn't think they were quite serious," Sirius admitted. "Isn't it a bit precipitous to have you do this already?"

Harry sighed, a melancholic smile on his face. "An order to begin deployment of the Military Mages in Spain for a quick end to the conflict," Harry spoke without even having looked at the document. "It was inevitable, really."

"It's a bad idea," Sirius opined. "The French are already nearly on the warpath because of the big reveal, and the idea of British militarized mages will surely tip them over the edge. The Foreign Office is barely managing to keep things from escalating, but it won't last. Warwick's been having a terrible time keeping up the government's good appearances."

"Their Ministry's certainly had a nightmarish time," Xenophilius added in. "Word has it that the French government's been demanding that the mages register themselves with the 'proper' authorities, which the Ministry's been trying to rebuff in a diplomatic manner," he relayed before shrugging and shaking his head. "Suffice to say, it's not working."

"Plus, we've been getting reports of unrest all across Britain," Sirius continued. "Anti-mage rallies, tolerance counter-protests…we're losing control, Harry."

"And the Ministry's bound to reap a great reward for it," Harry concluded, still facing the vast plains before him.

Sirius nodded with a grimace. "There'd be no stopping them if they tried to take over in a month or two," he estimated. "Our constables are either being overworked trying to keep the protests from getting out of hand or are _part_ of the protests, so our security's gone down the sink."

"Death Eater rumblings have been getting worse lately as well," Xenophilius informed Harry. "They're not blind to the decaying situation—they're likely to take advantage of it to wipe out the rest of the Muggle government."

"Then all they have to do is wait for the Ministry to take over, then they take over the Ministry," Harry filled in, a melancholic smile on his face. "Build up a power to then seize the throne…without using their forces, they weaken us and reap the rewards. Truly ingenious."

Sirius' expression turned sombre, even perhaps a little afraid. "Harry, there's very few people who possess that sort of strategic thinking within the Magical World…" he began.

"Two years ago," Harry interrupted him suddenly. "Mum informed me of a particular theory she'd been working on since that day in October, 1981…" he informed Sirius and Xenophilius. "She recalled, and dad confirmed it, that Voldemort's body was disintegrated into dust, and yet a wraith-like creature had escaped from the remains and fled our home." He took a deep breath. "But what could such a being be? More importantly, the spell they had used to bring the Dark Lord down hadn't been _that_ powerful—not enough to turn his body into ash, anyway, no matter how much we've played it up since," he related. "So mum came up with a rather simple, but horrifying conclusion…"

"You're not serious…" Xenophilius breathed, becoming significantly paler as he caught on.

Harry nodded, looking up towards the blue sky. "Voldemort did not die that night," he confirmed. "And, if mum is correct, then the leader of the Death Eaters has been, for the past year or so, Voldemort himself."

Silence descended upon the trio as two of them gaped at the third.

"P-Preposterous!" Xenophilius protested. "If he was back, why wouldn't he show himself for a full year?"

"To make the Death Eaters seem less of a threat than they would appear to be if he were out in the open," Harry replied simply. "If the Death Eaters had been publicly revealed to be led by the Dark Lord, there would be such widespread panic that the Ministry would be paralyzed, which doesn't serve him well this time around," Harry analyzed. "He _wants_ the Ministry to be stable, because he _wants_ the Ministry to take over the Crown government. Then, when the mages are in power, he can swoop in and install himself as the ruler of both worlds, so to speak."

Sirius nodded, still quite pale from the revelation, but also cupping his chin pensively. "Ingenious," he muttered. "And we can't reveal this to the mage general public, because we have no proof."

Xenophilius nodded along, also agreeing with his colleagues. "It'd be hearsay, nothing more, and Scrimgeour isn't about to believe that a man who's been gone for the past twenty nine years is suddenly back and manipulating events behind the scenes!"

"So, how do we deal with an empowered Ministry and a decaying situation?" asked Harry rhetorically, although neither men caught onto it.

"We should distract them with bigger bait," Sirius suggested. "Say, the spy situation within their own ranks."

"Or we could incite a few Dark Creature tribes to cause some havoc," suggested Xenophilius.

Harry smiled at both suggestions, but shook his head nonetheless. "Good ideas, but neither will retain their attention for _that_ long," he told them. "The spy situation is something they have suspected for some time, so it'll just be a matter of time before they catch our first-layer moles. When they do, they will then strike at us, hoping to take us over before we can react."

"The second idea has some merit, but would take too long in setting up," he added then. "If a mass of Dark Creatures _suddenly_ sprung up all around Ministry territory without sufficient build-up, then even the most novice of Aurors would see that the situation was orchestrated. Seeing as how the Death Eaters have been rather focused on empowering the Ministry rather than sowing chaos, it wouldn't take long for at least Dumbledore to realize that we are behind it, thus giving them a reason to strike first," he analyzed. "We don't have the time for establishing this gradual build-up, so we cannot risk getting exposed and struck at this soon."

"Then what's the plan, Harry?" asked Sirius, frustrated with his godson's mind games. Honestly, was it _that_ hard to just tell them the facts without beating around the bush?

"The plan," he began, before looking over his shoulder at his colleagues and smiling at them knowingly. "Has been in action for the past month."

Such a pronouncement shocked Sirius and Xenophilius, both of whom had only heard of the current crisis now and had thus only _just_ starting planning contingencies. To hear that Harry, a young man at least twenty years younger than they, had already planned and carried out a strategy well before any of this information had come to light was…stunning, to say the least.

Harry turned around slowly, his right hand coming up in a receiving gesture towards someone behind Sirius and Xenophilius. Both men turned slightly to see the small figure of Josefina, her obsidian black long hair swaying behind her in the soft breeze, coming towards them. Behind _her_, surprising both men, was a small group of Goblins.

"The Goblin Nation has answered," Harry said with a triumphant smile. "And my finest bedbug has come home."

Silently, one of the Goblins behind Josefina marched up to Harry and there, right in front of him, kneeled, a cloth-wrapped package raised above his head. Harry's smile widened into a grin as he pointed towards it with his open hand.

Silently, the knot unfurled itself, and Harry spoke once more. "The Ministry has their eyes on us because we are the biggest threat," he repeated. "The Death Eaters empower the Ministry, so they have toned down their attacks. Dumbledore sits on the periphery of this conflict, because none of his assets are any longer under attack," he then smirked knowingly as he gazed down on the package as it unravelled itself. "But now…"

He did not turn away as the package's contents were revealed. Instead, his expression became triumphantly vicious as he witnessed the fruit of his meticulous planning. Before him, he could hear the shocked gasps of Sirius and Xenophilius as the package's contents were revealed.

The bloodied head of Draco Malfoy, his expression frozen forever in shock.

"…Longbottom's antipathy for Draco Malfoy is well known," he continued, the triumphant tone returning to his voice. "Furthermore, there were witnesses to an altercation between the two over Josefina. Coupled with accusations of being a spy for Dumbledore and his status as the son of a Death Eater, the Ministry will defend Longbottom while vilifying Malfoy; Dumbledore will accuse Death Eaters of assassinating an alleged spy to deflect attention; and the Death Eaters will attack the Ministry, bound to avenge one of their own's loss, or otherwise risk dissent from Malfoy senior."

He heard someone—probably Xenophilius—gag at the sight of the bloodied head. He didn't blame the man—after all, when had Xenophilius ever been in combat? His job was to control the flow of information, not fight on the front lines.

"Decapitation isn't usual amongst mage murders, Harry," Sirius pointed out, pale but otherwise fine. "Someone will suspect."

Harry didn't even bother to turn around to face Sirius. "Josefina?" he simply prompted.

Said young woman nodded and clasped her hands in front of her in salute. "Our Goblin colleagues here managed to replicate the signature from Neville's wand and deliberately used magic to commit the crime," she reported. "The missing head will be explained by the magical signature of an exploding curse."

"And Neville?" challenged Sirius. "He can still testify under Veritaserum."

Josefina gave Sirius a 'who do you take me for' look. "Neville can't remember what he did last night," she informed the uninformed amongst them. "I slipped him some roofies during our date."

"Taking out the Malfoy child was disgustingly simple," one of the Goblins—not the one carrying the head—snarled. "All he needed to see was our female comrade in revealing clothing and that was the end of him."

"We've even managed to round up a few auditory witnesses who will swear they heard two male voices shouting loudly and a female voice sobbing," Josefina added. "The story is that Malfoy threatened my persona with sacking Neville for insubordination unless I could 'convince' him otherwise, and that Neville found out and killed him and I in a crime of passion, with my own death being accidental."

"You see?" Harry then said, addressing Sirius and Xenophilius as he walked past them, hands still clasped behind his back. "Thus incited, the Ministry, Death Eaters, and Dumbledore will swallow each other up while we clean up the mess in Spain," he summarized. "With this, my arrangements are complete without the use of our military forces. We are now free to subjugate Spain, and begin our walk down the bloody road to conquest."

* * *

**Coast of Scotland, United Kingdom, June 30****th****, 2010 (D-Day +520)…**

Neville could scarcely _believe_ how messed up his life had gotten in such a short amount of time.

A month ago, he had been a respected Auror and trusted man of the government. He had been on the forefront of numerous operations to take down high-profile Death Eaters and had received honours for his dedicated work in making society safe. He had been partnered with Nymphadora Tonks, also a respected Auror, and the two had made an amazing duo, with Tonks bringing a great deal more empathy to the team while Neville took care of providing the brawn.

And now, a month later, he was a criminal being escorted to Azkaban on two counts of murder.

There had been no way around it. The evidence at Malfoy's house had been damning. They had his wand signature—odd, considering he couldn't remember using it that night—and apparently had witnesses ready to testify that they heard him shouting at Malfoy that very night. The fact that Malfoy had been decapitated, with no head around, implied he had probably used a very dark blasting curse, which by itself was a one-way ticket to Azkaban.

So now they were carrying him off to that horrid, foul stain on the earth.

The worst part, Neville reflected, had been his trial—if one could call it that. Being a loyal subordinate of Scrimgeour's, the Minister had been "requested" to sequester himself from the proceedings due to bias by those everyone and their _dog_ knew to be sympathetic to the Death Eaters. Dumbledore, for his, part, had remained silent, either knowing that arguing would do him no good, or that Neville being out of the way could be a good thing for his own agenda. How, Neville didn't know, but then…Neville wasn't Albus Dumbledore.

Thus left without support from two of the most important members of the Wizengamot, it hadn't been hard for the rest to find him guilty of not just one, but _two_ counts of murder. That's right; they had accused Neville of killing his precious Elizabeth as well, ostensibly in a fit of jealous rage when she had, according to those vile prosecutors, chosen Malfoy over him. With no one capable of testifying for him, Neville knew then and there that he would get convicted. How could they not? He had sat in enough trials to know how this one would end up, and not even the character testimony of Tonks or any other sympathetic Auror had managed to move the judges.

So now, here he was: on his way to Azkaban, his sentence being imprisonment for life.

It was hard for him not to rage at the injustice he was suffering. How many years had he given to Magical Society for it to so easily write him off as a murderer? Where was due process? Where had the famous Hermione Granger, supposedly the champion of the oppressed and unjustly persecuted, been when he had needed a defence attorney?

He had been betrayed—that was his sincerest belief. Someone had set him up and the rest had left him out to dry.

Even the pitying glances from his escort didn't diminish the sense of betrayal he was feeling. If they sympathized with him so much, why hadn't they spoken up at his trial? Why had only his partner of five years spoken for him? Where had all the people who had praised him only months prior been? Had their silence been bought? Was their honour truly so cheap to them?

A wave of disgust hit him as the thought festered in his mind. He just couldn't bring himself to understand how the loyalty he'd shown—even after his parents had been killed by Auror inefficiency—had been so cheaply repaid. In his mind, there was no justification for betraying one's loyal subordinates. Even sequestered from the trial, Scrimgeour could have marshalled his supporters to help him, but he hadn't. Dumbledore had likely prevented Granger from defending him, and it was damned clear that the Death Eaters had done everything in their power just to make life miserable for him, now that he stood accused of murdering the son of one of their highest-ranked.

Neville glared at the small boat tied to the rickety pier that would inevitably bring him to Azkaban. This was a disgrace; an unfitting end for him!

"Come along, then, Longbottom," one of the guards waiting at the pier spoke up then. "Haven't got all bloody day."

"Easy there, John, he's one of us, remember?" one of his escort warned the man. Neville felt like scoffing in disbelief, but chose to stay silent, his glare still fixed on the vehicle of his doom.

"If he was, he wouldn't be here like every other prisoner who'd been put behind bars, now would he?" snarked John the Guard. "Anyway, time's a'running, so get a move on, will ya?"

Grudgingly it seemed, Neville's escort began to move him forward, their wands trained on him—as their training dictated—in case he tried anything. Damned unlikely, considering they had taken his wand, snapped it in half, and then slammed on the new anti-magic cuffs that they'd first pioneered to restrain the infamous Harry Potter with. If anything, he'd be lucky to get even the _simplest_ spell working.

So not only was he being framed, but he was also robbed of his birthright and humiliated before his peers. What a fantastic world he had worked for all his adult life. Why didn't he just become a Herbology professor, like he'd first intended?

Well, that one was simple enough to answer, Neville supposed. His parents had died, in his final year at Hogwarts, during a botched Auror raid where the expected reinforcements had arrived roughly an hour late due to mismanagement. Incensed, he had dropped his dream of teaching and opted for joining the Auror Corps in the hopes of preventing any such tragedy from reoccurring again. It also helped that three months after he'd joined, he was able to cut down the Death Eaters who'd killed his parents.

His way to the boat was silent, as he refused to give any of the men present the satisfaction of hearing him whimper, or plead, or even defy them. They could take damn near everything he had in this life, but the one thing they wouldn't ever get was his pride. He knew he was innocent, and he knew he was a damn fine Auror; perhaps not on the calibre of Ginny Weasley, or even the famous Kingsley Shacklebolt, but he was no slouch, and he had only been improving since the start of his career.

He had just placed his first steps onto the pier, however, when his thoughts were disturbed by the sound of a body crumpling, causing him to jerk his head sideways to glance behind him. Arguably more shocked than he should be, given his current predicament, he gazed at the robed figures of Death Eaters swooping down on his escort, taking each down with expert spell fire and quickly eliminating any opposition.

Something in Neville's mind clicked at that point. Since when were Death Eaters so surgically precise? Usually, they were all about the wild spell fire and random hits. Organization and indeed combat expertise of this calibre was not something he was used to seeing in Death Eaters. It was almost like…someone was trying to _frame_ them.

Neville started to turn around when he suddenly felt two hands on his shoulders and a large force bear down on him, causing him to fall to his knees mid-turn. His head bowed, he looked up through his bangs at his captors and noticed that besides the two he could glance holding him down, there were six more taking stock of the damage they had caused and another just sitting there on a rock not five feet from him.

"I apologize for the rough treatment, Mister Longbottom, but you know how this is," the masked figure said, his voice barely muffled by the mask. "Appearances and all that."

The figure paused then as he looked to Neville's side, where one of the robed Death Eaters had nodded to him. "All clear, sir," said the man.

The masked man on the rock nodded. "Good," he said simply before turning to Neville. "Now then, with no one to interrupt us…" he raised his hand to his own mask and, with a wave, the white garment suddenly vanished into thin air, revealing a face Neville had long ago burned into his memory.

Sirius Black. Godfather of Harry Potter, the most despised man in all of the Magical World.

"Why don't you and I have an _honest_ conversation?" Sirius suggested with an enigmatic smile. Neville didn't even have a chance to respond, as Sirius then turned his attention to the men holding him down. "Bring him to the safehouse," he ordered before glancing at two more of his subordinates and pointing at them with two fingers. "Jenson, Maguire, make sure to leave the crime scene believable. We need the Ministry to buy into an execution theory."

"Yes, sir," came the swift replies.

Sirius smiled at Neville then. "One more detail before we go," he said idly as he pointed up his wand. "_Morsmorde!_"

In the sickly green glow of the Death Eaters' signature spell, Neville felt his world tug out of existence as he disappeared from the area with the familiar "Pop!" of Apparation, heading to a destination unknown to him.


	6. Chapter V: While You Were Out

_AN: Right, then. Sorry for the absurd delay. Recently got enrolled in a Master's program for an Education Degree, got a job as a Law Firm consultant, and it's my birthday tomorrow, so I've been a little hard pressed to continue writing as regularly as I used to. I will try to get the next chapter out quicker, but no promises. _

_Also, given the Harry-centric nature of the story, the following probably won't be the most popular chapter for this story, but I figured it would be nice to know where Harry's less obvious magical opponents stand._

* * *

**Hogwarts Castle, Scotland, United Kingdom, July 1****st****, 2010 (D-Day +521)…**

To say that the last month or so had been bad was like saying Grindelwald had been a _little_ bad, or that Voldemort was maybe a _tad_ violent. In short, it was an understatement and stupid, in Dumbledore's opinion. Nearly everything that could've gone wrong in the past month _had_, and he was no closer to solving the insane amount of problems that kept popping up every day.

Not to mention, he now had another problem to deal with. Neville Longbottom's apparent assassination at the hands of Death Eaters.

"Still no change?" he asked wearily to the man standing before his desk.

The elderly gentleman, for his part, shook his head slowly. "Augusta is terribly distraught about her only grandson's murder, estranged or not," he informed Dumbledore. "She demands action be taken against the Death Eaters for this, or else my dear sister has promised to cut off her share of the funding."

"Algie, surely she wouldn't undermine the cause just on this," Dumbledore noted skeptically. After all, her support for Dumbledore, and Neville's support for the Ministry had driven quite the wedge between the two relatives. So much so that, in the last few months, they had stopped talking to each other entirely.

"You misjudge the severity of the situation, Albus," Algie Longbottom sniffed. "Augusta may have had words with young Neville, as did many of us, but he was still her only grandson, and only surviving link to her son."

"And yet she did not speak up at his trial," Dumbledore observed shrewdly. "Or even mobilize her considerable influence."

Algie seemed to ignore the pointed remark, instead lifting his hand to inspect his fingernails. "Augusta probably believed you would try to use the situation to win over Neville," the man observed dully. "She was quite miffed when you did nothing there as well."

"Young Neville was a lost cause," Dumbledore insisted. "Before he went over to Scrimgeour, he took enough information to get ten of our contacts in the Ministry arrested!"

"And yet Draco Malfoy wasn't worthy of such reprimand, I noticed," Algie countered, again, quite bored with the proceedings. Almost as though he knew how this would end. "Those rumours of your support for his position were false, of course?"

"Absolutely," Dumbledore confirmed, though he privately reasoned that eventually, he might have done such a move to try and weasel Malfoy, and thus the Auror Office, entirely into his camp. "We still haven't got a clue how they spread."

"Miss Weasley seems to disagree," Algie noted, his inspection of his fingernails suddenly screeching to a halt as his sharp eyes glanced up to pierce Dumbledore's stare. "She has quite the theory, in fact. Her brother Bill seems to concur."

"Miss Weasley's perceptions are currently considered to be…questionable," Dumbledore replied almost impatiently. "Her interactions with the object of her apparent obsession throws her judgment into doubt."

Algie Longbottom stared at Dumbledore for a while, his usually blank-looking eyes sharp and narrowed at him, as though he were trying to discern whether or not Dumbledore was lying. After a while, he decided the older man wasn't lying, and nodded. "Very well. I shall say no more on this, then," he concluded before grabbing his fedora from the edge of one of the high-backed chairs and setting it onto his bald head. "I leave you instead with this reminder: the Longbottoms will have nothing to do with you if you do not seek to redress this most vile attack on our already diminished numbers against the Death Eaters. Good day, Dumbledore."

With that, the elderly gentleman gave a tip of his hat, turned around, and walked straight into the fireplace, a casual toss from his left hand unleashing the Floo powder necessary to get him home.

Left alone, Dumbledore steepled his hands and closed his eyes as he descended into frustrated thought. This was an economic blow he couldn't afford to suffer. The Longbottoms' numbers, as Algie had said, were indeed diminished, but their wealth, perhaps as a consequence, had greatly increased with the years.

Years that, unfortunately, had diminished Dumbledore's own physical abilities. At 129, he was well aware that his physical stamina had decreased to the point where stretched out duels were quickly becoming an impossibility. Twenty years ago? Fifteen? Certainly. But now?

His eyes drifted to his arms, partially revealed from their hiding place in his sleeves by the raised position he had his hands. Barely more than skin and bones at this point. Even for a mage, he was quickly reaching the outer limits of longevity, and he knew it poignantly.

Perhaps magic loved contradictions, then, because his magical power hadn't even decreased a drop in all these years, instead strengthening itself and refining itself such that he could do the most amazing work he'd ever done with half of the power it would have taken him years ago. Wandless magic was still tricky for him, but he chalked that up on lack of training during his upbringing, as the Potter boy had shown that large feats of magic were indeed possible without a wand.

Potter. Harry Potter. Dumbledore's eyes narrowed. This was one of the current banes of his existence. Ironic, then, that he was also the Chosen saviour that he'd been searching for all these years. From the moment he'd known Voldemort had been vanquished in 1981, he had been looking for this young boy and his parents, only to finally find him at the very moment that the Ministry and, in fact, the entire world's eyes were on him. Even worse, the boy had grown into a stubborn, embittered man (in his opinion), and had singlehandedly lifted the veil of secrecy that had for so long kept the Magical World out of sight. No amount of magic could possibly work now to erase that fact.

"You seem lost in thought, Albus," noted a wizened, old voice from the door.

Startled at the fact that he'd missed someone else's presence outside his door—as he had charms set up to warn him of any presence outside his office—he nonetheless calmed down relatively quickly when he saw it was his old research partner, Nicholas Flamel.

"I am concerned, Nicholas, for our future," Albus replied simply as he rested his weary head onto the palm of his right hand. "Everything that could have gone wrong, has," he pointed out.

The _much_, much older wizard nodded sagely, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "And the beneficiary in this is blindingly apparent," Flamel added to his friend's musings.

Dumbledore nodded. "Harry Potter."

Flamel nodded. "And yet you persist in dismissing this fact before our allies, Albus. Why?" he asked, no aggression, no demand in his voice. A simple request between friends.

"You know why," Dumbledore replied simply, causing Flamel to sigh.

"Albus, the prophecy merely stated that someone who could take down the Dark Lord would arise, not that he'd be a paragon of virtue and a staunch defender of magical isolationism," Flamel pointed out.

"The people will not accept him as their saviour if he does not fulfill those requirements, Nicholas," Dumbledore countered. "In fact, it is doubtful they would support him now, after all he's done, even _if_ he changed his ways."

"Then let him _go_, Albus," Flamel argued. "Whitewashing the truth is going to hurt us in the long run. If our allies think he's still worthy of your brand of redemption, they'll handicap themselves in a fight against him to bring him in. That'll get people killed."

Dumbledore sighed in frustration as he rubbed his temples in a vain attempt at massaging away his current headache. "What do you suggest I _do_, then, Nicholas? Let him roam free, accumulating massive influence?" he asked dejectedly. "We both know the world he'll create with his monstrous army is not the one we want."

"Then make your own force," Flamel suggested simply.

"I beg your pardon?"

The several times centenarian walked over to Dumbledore's desk and leaned forward on it, making sure Dumbledore had a clear line of sight with his eyes. "Make. Your. Own. Force," he repeated slowly. "If neither Scrimgeour, nor Potter, can deliver on the world you want, then you must fight for it yourself, with your own resources."

"We would be betraying the Ministry," Dumbledore protested. "Our allies wouldn't hear of it."

"They would, if you explained to them that the Ministry is currently a nest of Death Eater puppets," Flamel pointed out. "Albus, the path you wanted to take has long since been taken away from you. It's time to let go and think outside the box, as the Muggles might say."

Dumbledore didn't answer right away. Instead, he leaned into his hand and rubbed his beard pensively as he reflected on his current situation. Raising Harry Potter to hero status amongst mages was, at the moment, an impossible task—and probably would remain so in the future. He had spat on too many traditions, stepped on too many toes to make it all go away. Still, it was weird to hear his old friend, typically in favor of equal tolerance all around, to support fighting the unionist Harry Potter. Thus far, he had only humoured his friend's suggestion as a theoretical exercise, but as the pressure kept mounting from him, Dumbledore grew genuinely interested and curious.

"Years ago, you would have supported a man like Potter," Dumbledore noted evenly as he tapped his desk with one finger. "What's changed?"

"Years ago, Potter wasn't tearing through a country with wizards and witches at his beck and call," Flamel replied dryly. "While I still think a lot of good can be had with wizard-Muggle integration, I do not believe in the peace Potter is offering. It is a peace built on a mountain of corpses and over rivers of blood—it _cannot_ come to pass," he stated firmly.

Dumbledore kept his eyes on his long-time friend, hating himself a little for the mistrust he was feeling towards his one-time colleague. Yet, mistrust he had to, as a preliminary round of investigations within the Ministry, after the Malfoy scandal, had shown that the Muggles had quite a number of spies buried deep within the infrastructure—many of them unthinkable in their identities.

Thus, if the Ministry was infiltrated, why couldn't he entertain the notion that his Order of the Phoenix had been as well? After all, he had a spy in the Death Eaters; how arrogant would he have to be to think his own security impenetrable?

"We'll need to consult the Order leadership," he judged at last, steepling his hands in thought. "This is a major policy decision, and I can't be arbitrary on this—too many people would have to sacrifice quite a bit of their normal lives to accommodate such a shift."

Flamel nodded. "I understand," he replied honestly. "You'll have a tough time selling it, Albus, but trust me—it's the right choice," he insisted.

"And what of the Ministry workers who aren't corrupt?" asked the aged headmaster.

"We offer them a place," Flamel replied easily enough with a shrug. "The Ministry's more of a front for a functioning government than an actual force to be reckoned with, at this point. Between the Death Eaters and Potter's own spies, more than half of the Ministry has either been bought out, framed, or gotten themselves bullied into servitude. Maybe a handful of them are still clean—Arthur Weasley for one."

"And Scrimgeour?" asked Dumbledore innocently. He knew the reaction it would elicit in his friend, and he wasn't at all disappointed when Flamel's eyes darkened.

"Scrimgeour is a political creature, Albus," Flamel reminded him tersely.

"He is also incorruptible and a staunch fighter against the Dark," Albus countered calmly. "His approval ratings, at the very least, are still quite amazingly high for a Minister for Magic."

"He's riding on Amelia's policies, and you know it, Albus," Flamel replied stubbornly. "He's done nothing amazing of his own during his time in office."

"Keeping wise policy decisions from past administrations is wisdom in itself, Nicholas," the centenarian wizard once again countered his friend. "…yes…he could be useful in that respect…I believe we _should_ give him a place in our new path, if it comes to that," he mused.

Flamel, seeing that he wouldn't win this argument, merely fixed his long-time friend and colleague a stern glare before nodding once in resignation. "Fine. Do whatever you want," he conceded. "Mark my words, though, he'll be nothing but trouble."

Dumbledore shrugged. "One man's trouble is another man's gain," he recited calmly as he watched Flamel huff and then leave the room.

He understood Flamel's animosity for Scrimgeour—it was an animosity many shared; _particularly_ those who believed the righteous path should have no forks. Yet, it was impossible to deny that Scrimgeour had his own brand of intellect that Dumbledore felt the Order was sorely lacking: political know-how. Sure, he personally had navigated many political channels in his day, but he had always kept the politics at arm's length, resulting in quite a few toes being treaded on and a lot of sensibilities offended. In his zeal to remain above reproach, he had isolated himself from quite a bit of political understanding, which Scrimgeour had plenty of. With the current Minister for Magic on board, Dumbledore knew they could soothe over any political issues much easier than if he tried to do it himself. He'd always felt that his skills weren't so much manipulating politics as it was designing grand plans and strategies. He could see the big picture, but he had trouble with the details. With a man like Rufus Scrimgeour on board, perhaps he wouldn't have to worry about the details as well.

Of course, Dumbledore mused, that just left the hardest part: convincing Scrimgeour to work for him.

* * *

**The Burrow, United Kingdom, July 6****th****, 2010 (D-Day +526)…**

"I hear Dumbledore's planning a big meeting,"

Hermione glanced to her left as she stopped mid-sip, her warm tea cup still up at her lips. As usual, she'd come by to stop and talk to her best friend, while at the same time enjoying the warm hospitality of the Weasleys, even despite the vicious break-up she and Ron had gone through after he'd been caught cheating on her with a fellow Auror.

"Bill told you?" asked the brunette quietly before finally drinking from her cup.

Her friend shook her head slightly. "Charlie," she corrected her friend. "Bill's been…isolating himself lately. Ever since he got fired from his job at Gringotts."

Hermione shrugged. "It _was_ inevitable, you know; passing information to Dumbledore and also confirming Potter's use of Goblin steel would have had any other person killed," she observed. "Bill got lucky on account of Dumbledore there."

"Doesn't mean he likes it," her companion responded with a dry chuckle. "I'll bet he's probably bored out of his mind, hence the isolation. Too much brilliance in that mind of his to stay still. Curse breaking helped in that respect."

"What about a job teaching?" suggested Hermione.

"Too dull," was the instant response, followed by an amused chuckle. "His words, not mine."

"He could always work for the Department of Mysteries, if he wants practical applications to his work," Hermione pointed out.

"Too secretive," again, instant reply. "Why do you think he was a Curse Breaker? He likes the limelight," she chuckled, amused by her brother's needs for attention.

"Your brother's a hard man to please, then," Hermione observed, giving up.

Her friend giggled. "He is that," she agreed, before sobering up, leaving only a small smile on her face as she gazed at the rather large backyard her family home possessed. "So, what's the meeting about?" she asked bluntly.

"Dunno."

A sidelong glance. "Liar," came the immediate accusation.

Hermione shrugged. "You know full well I can't disclose that sort of information to anyone outside the inner circle," she noted calmly.

"You told me about the Death Eater ambush," her friend pointed out.

Hermione eyed her friend. "Fat load of good that did you," she commented dryly, waving at the wheelchair Ginny was sitting in. "How're the legs, by the way?"

Ginny sighed. "They're coming along, as the Healers say," was the bland response. "The attack was more vicious than I'd anticipated."

"And yet Potter got away practically scot-free," Hermione observed.

"Potter's a survivor," Ginny informed her friend. "And considering I had arrested him, I can understand why he chose not to help me immediately," she added.

"Sympathy for the enemy, Ginny?" asked Hermione, surprised. "You know what Kingsley says about that."

"Kingsley is a good man, but too caught up in his black-and-white view of the world," Ginny commented as she looked up to the blue sky. "But I don't blame him, either. He's lost much fighting the Death Eaters. Makes a man hard in spirit, that does."

Hermione didn't answer, settling instead for drinking from her cup while the tea remained warm. A moment of silence passed between the two women before Hermione broke it at last.

"No specifics, and it didn't come from me," she stated bluntly, not even bothering to see if Ginny was paying attention. She was. She always was.

"Of course."

"Dumbledore's had a meeting recently—someone in his confidence, even more so than the inner circle. From what I can gather, it's made Dumbledore reevaluate his priorities some," she informed Ginny. "That's the meeting's agenda. Apparently, he wants to put the new priorities to a vote."

"I'm guessing I've not been invited, once again?" asked the redhead with a forlorn smile.

Hermione confirmed her suspicion with a shake of her head. "Unfortunately not," Hermione said. "Your failure to retrieve Potter aside, Dumbledore feels you've been too exposed to Potter's influence, and that as a result, your current mindset is clearly not in the best interests of the organization," she relayed candidly before drinking from her cup again. She then grabbed the pitcher next to her and refilled her cup, enjoying the smooth, soothing smell of brewed tea.

"This probably has to do with the Longbottom incident, then," Ginny concluded, her fists tightening ever so slightly on the armrests of her wheelchair. "I'm not wrong, you know."

"About Potter being responsible for those rumors that led to Neville and Draco's alleged confrontation?" Hermione asked for confirmation rhetorically. They both knew that was exactly what Ginny was talking about. She nodded then. "I know. I agree."

"Dumbledore doesn't," Ginny pointed out bitterly.

Hermione sighed as she placed her half-full cup onto the stainless steel platter next to her. "For Dumbledore to admit that Potter is behind everything you accredit to him, Ginny, would mean he would have to admit that he's finally met his match," she informed her friend, knowing full well the redhead had probably arrived at that conclusion on her own already. "Even worse: that perhaps he is being outclassed. Such thoughts do not contribute to our success if they fester in the thoughts of our leader."

"He's blinding himself," Ginny pointed out. "One day, if Potter ever blindsides us, we'll be taken completely by surprise. _Then_ what'll we do?"

Hermione sighed. "I know, Gin, but what _can_ we do?" she asked, once again, rhetorically. "If Dumbledore's set, he's set."

A sidelong glance from the redhead. "Not if you intercede for me."

Hermione raised her eyebrows in surprise. "You want me to back you up before the Order?" she asked dubiously. "That'll practically assure that Ronald will vote against you; and with him, his faction."

Ginny shrugged. "From my calculations, his people can be outvoted if you can convince McGonagall and Kingsley," she countered. "If you bring those two on board, the nay-sayers would have their factions overwhelmed."

"The Weasleys have always voted together, though," Hermione pointed out. "You're asking me to help you break years of voting tradition. It's very risky—no telling how this'll play out."

"Ron's got his head up his arse," Ginny said dismissively. "He's got brains, but he doesn't use them, and whenever he does, he never takes an idea as far as it should. Yet, for all that, he's blind to his faults and takes credit whenever he can, so his popularity is still quite solid. If we can get the Order to revamp its priority list by shunning Ron, then I say we do it," she stated firmly. "This is too important to leave to tradition."

Hermione gazed at Ginny for a moment, observing and analyzing her body language. She then raised an eyebrow in stifled surprise. "You're serious about this. You're _really_ willing to go against your own brother."

"I backed you up once before, remember?" Ginny asked with an impish smile.

Hermione blushed a bit as she reminisced about her break-up with Ron, a year ago. She'd never been a social butterfly at Hogwarts, and yet Ginny had sought her out in friendship during third year, bringing Hermione into a rather interesting social group consisting of most of Hogwart's most eccentric or shy figures, as well as quite a few popular kids. Anyone else would've been hard pressed to make such a group function well within itself, but Ginny had handled it skillfully, resulting in Hermione graduating from Hogwarts with _some_ good memories.

Still, their friendship during school hadn't guaranteed Ginny's backing when Ron and she had broken up. It hadn't been pretty—she'd caught Ron cheating on her one night after work, resulting in a whole slew of lies coming out into the open. At the time, both were medium-ranked members of the Order of the Phoenix, and so their feud had touched the organization as well, resulting in Dumbledore having to interfere. She had been reassigned to his inner circle—mostly handling any legal troubles the members would have in the course of their duties—while Ron had been reassigned to working in the field, thus minimizing any contact they had with each other, except when their Ministry jobs crossed paths, as she was nominally still a prosecutor for the Ministry and Ron was an Auror.

Surprisingly, though, Ginny had backed Hermione all the way, despite Charlie's initial support for Ron, and the Twins' reluctance to take sides—even if they _did_ like Hermione better than Ron. Bill had been casually disinterested, while Percy had just ignored everything. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, however, had decided to just pretend like nothing had ever happened, and continued to treat her well.

The battle-lines weren't as obvious nowadays, thankfully. Neither Ron nor she could say, for certain, that they had any of the Weasley's certain support—except for Hermione and Ginny. Thus, she sort of owed her friend for the continuous loyalty.

"Fine, I'll have a chat with Kingsley and Minerva," she conceded as she brought her tea cup to her lips once more. "No promises, though."

Ginny smiled, resting her hands on her lap as she watched the pretty scenery before her. It was one of the advantages of living in a rural zone, she supposed. "I'm not asking for any," she replied easily.

* * *

**Hogwarts, United Kingdom, July 30****th****, 2010 (D-Day +550)…**

Many people love to say that a particular piece of news stunned them into silence. Many of those anecdotes, of course, tend to be exaggerations made to symbolize the importance of the news. However, there are indeed a few occasions where the impact of the event can actually stun an entire audience into silence.

July 30th, 2010, was such an event.

"There is no question that these facts are entirely truthful and devoid of exaggeration," Dumbledore read out loud from the report in his hands, his weak grip barely holding onto the parchment. His audience, for their part, was entirely stunned into silence. He couldn't blame them—were he not the one reading, he might have been stunned into silence as well.

"In a campaign that lasted only a single week, the Eastern Army of Spain has been decisively crushed at Zaragoza," he read, his voice trailing off as he finished the sentence.

Eventually, he too was silent before the facts laid out before him. Eastern Spain had been the only unconquerable stumbling block before the British forces during all this time. Many opponents to the British efforts had come to count on the Eastern Spanish regions to hold out indefinitely, and just a week ago, that had actually seemed feasible.

"Im-Impossible!" protested the Order's spy in the Death Eaters, Severus Snape. "No matter how powerful the Muggle forces are, there is no way that the Spanish army at Zaragoza could be so decisively beaten in _a_ _single_ _week_!"

Dumbledore waved the parchment in his hands about weakly. "I am merely reading the report, Severus," he reminded the sallow man. "And our source is one of our most reliable Spanish informants."

"Nonetheless, Headmaster, we cannot be expected to swallow such news on a matter of trust alone," Arthur Weasley noted, this time siding with Snape. It was an unusual alliance, but given the circumstances, he wasn't that ready to accept such a mind-boggling win in such a short time.

"I agree, Dumbledore," Algie Longbottom droned out, as though he had been bored by the proceedings—ignoring the fact that he'd been just as stupefied by the news just seconds ago. "Without proof, the Longbottoms will not accept this report as factual."

Dumbledore sighed. Had Augusta not been so antagonistic towards him recently, he would have preferred that she be the representative for the Longbottoms. As it stood, however, he had to deal with the much more cynical Algie.

"If there _is_ proof, then we'll all be able to see it in a few hours," Hermione spoke up then, instantly grabbing everyone's attention. "Such a victory would undoubtedly raise the people's morale, so the military regime will want to broadcast it via television and radio."

There had been a time when "television" and "radio" would have garnered blank stares. Yet, with the big revelation of mage communities around the world, many had been forced to come face to face with the Muggle contraptions, such that they all understood what Hermione spoke of this time around. They were by no means experts, however, nor did they necessarily know how to use the machines, but they had enough of an understanding to know what they _are_.

"She has a point," Ron Weasley admitted grudgingly. "A victory of this magnitude will make them want to celebrate."

"They won't publicize it," Ginny spoke up then, surprising the group. Ever since her reinstatement to the group, she had taken great care not to rock the boat during meetings. Thus far, that had been easy, as not many important issues came up in which she would have an opinion that went contrary to the group thought. This time, however, she had to correct them. "They can't afford to."

"What are you blathering about?" snapped Severus as he glared at the younger woman. "A victory like this would be just the thing to show off the Muggle Government's power!"

"In the short run, yes, but not in the long run," Ginny countered calmly, keeping her hands clasped before her face as she leaned back into her wheelchair. Though she looked like she wanted to keep speaking, she knew that to do so without an invitation from Dumbledore could spell the end of her reinstatement.

Fortunately, she had managed to prick Dumbledore's curiosity. "Please elaborate, Miss Weasley," the aged wizard requested formally.

"Headmaster! This is preposterous!"

Dumbledore fixed the naysayer with a disapproving stare. "If it is, then the logic will not hold up to scrutiny," he chided. "But if it isn't, then we will be all the wiser thanks to Miss Weasley's conclusions," he added, before nodding to Ginny to go on.

Ginny nodded back, somewhat surprised at the fact that she'd been given her five minutes to shine once again. "Thank you, Headmaster," she started. "If the government were to publicize the victory, it's true that the world would stand awed by the event and perhaps rethink their opinion of the British government, despite the massive casualties incurred during the Death Eater raid."

She raised a finger to halt any comments thus far. "However, it would also place a big target on the British nation," she added then with a knowing smile. "A military victory so decisive will undoubtedly bring them awe and respect, but also fear and hate. Those most threatened by the rise of the British nation will start becoming hostile to the government, and thus their losses will be greater than their gains."

"How does one _censor_ the conquest of a region?" demanded Dean Thomas, who had both been her boyfriend at one point, but also headed the Order's identification forging section thanks to his considerable skill as an artist. There wasn't a passport or identification card he couldn't replicate, even without magic.

"Simple, you don't advance your lines," Ginny explained. "If we assume they'll hold back on the news, then it stands to reason that the military will similarly do its utmost to hold back their front lines, so as to give themselves more time to lessen the other nations' suspicions."

"Why not expose the ploy?" asked Ron at that point. "The ramifications against the Muggle government would be catastrophic."

"Except, it'll hurt us too," Hermione countered, giving Ginny a look of dawning understanding. "If we reveal the details of the ploy, the other nations' suspicion and fear will rise dramatically in a short period of time. The most threatened of them will thus mobilize to contain the UK immediately."

Ginny nodded. "With the excuse of releasing the Muggle government from the thrall of us mages, any country could feasibly invade us in a month. What keeps them in check, however, are the _five hundred_ _thousand_ troops in Spain and the rumors of Military Mages," she added, pleased that Hermione had seen her point. While the brunette was indisputably smarter than her in almost every academic field known to man, this was a field that Ginny had come to love and thrive in, whereas Hermione's principles held her back from fully embracing military doctrine.

"But that would be the Muggles' war, not ours," Snape pointed out. "Why should we care?"

"Because to make due on their alleged goal, they would hunt us down," Hermione answered for her friend. "If the other countries allege that they will be invading to purge mage influence on the government, they'll have to take everyone with magical powers down just to be on the safe side," she explained. "Add to that the fact that such a _cassus belli_ would make the public feel as though the attacks are justified, and we're left in a rather dangerous position."

"What I don't understand is how keeping the lines back will cover up for the massive victory they've just achieved," Arthur Weasley pointed out. "I mean, couldn't reporters just cross the lines and see the truth for themselves? Don't the Muggles have don't camera thingies in the sky? Wouldn't the Spanish forces surrender?"

Ginny shook her head. "If we assume that the British keep their lines back, then reporters will be unwilling to move beyond them, as they will assume that if the British troops won't march forward, then it isn't safe," she explained. "As for Spanish reporters, it's well known that the Spanish government in Barcelona has been censoring the press heavily. This sort of defeat will be hushed up as well."

"As for _satellites_," Hermione stressed the word, wishing the group were more familiar with non-magical technology, "the British could argue that they feel the Spanish withdrawal is a trap, so they're staying put. However, only the French and other European nations would bring it up, if they feel so inclined, and they are probably more worried about using their satellite capabilities to hunt down rogue mages in their own jurisdictions than to question happenings in the Anglo-Spanish at the moment."

"How _did_ the defeat happen to begin with?" demanded one of the newer members of the group. "Wasn't Eastern Spain supposed to be nigh impregnable?"

Dumbledore scanned the message briefly before shaking his head. "The message is non-specific as to how it occurred, only that it did," he informed his audience."

"Military mages," Hermione broke in then, grabbing everyone's attention. "It has to be. Potter and his military mages finally took to the field."

Ginny thumbed her lips pensively—a habit she had picked up from Harry Potter when she'd visited him in prison. "It makes sense," she agreed. "The Spanish government, being highly reactionary and conservative, has been at odds with the Spanish Ministry of Magic from the beginning, so they wouldn't have any defenses against the Military Mages."

"If that's true, then what are we supposed to do?" asked another member. "While the Muggles become even more powerful, all we're doing is sitting here!"

Ginny eyed the man who'd spoken out appreciatively. It was good to know she wasn't the only one who thought that way in the group. "We must strengthen our forces as well," she concluded. "If we are to survive in this new age, it is the only way."

Dumbledore nodded in agreement before looking to his left to his unusually taciturn friend, Nicholas Flamel. "What do you think, Nicholas?" asked the wizened Headmaster.

The even _more_ aged wizard was silent for a moment before nodding in agreement. "I believe Miss Weasley is correct. As we stand, we are a laughable threat to the Muggle government, and thus to Potter. If we increased our forces, however, we would be able to stand as equals before any negotiating table," he reasoned. "Thankfully, there is a large supply of wizards and witches roaming the Isles right now."

Charlie Weasley sighed as he shook his head pessimistically. "We're trying to recruit as many of them as we can, but so far, we're hitting a dead-end in regards to the language barrier," he interjected then. "My Romanian, for instance, is shoddy at best, and we _only_ have Hermione for French. Add to that the fact that we have no one speaking German or Spanish, or even Italian or Mandarin, and we're finding ourselves practically communicating through sign language!"

Hermione nodded in agreement with the second oldest Weasley sibling. "Our lack of translators is hindering our recruitment process," she added to Charlie's complaint. "Not just recruitment, but operational as well. Without people fluent enough in foreign languages, we can't even organize a simple mission, let alone a major offensive against our enemies."

"Sadly, it appears that most of our better skilled people have been lured away by Potter," Ron spat in disgust. "It took some time to find out where they were, but we've now confirmed that many of the wizards and witches considered experts in their fields were smuggled out of the country by the Potters."

"Unwillingly?" asked Dumbledore, hopeful.

Ron shook his head, causing Dumbledore to sag. "Apparently, they don't smuggle out anyone who doesn't _want_ to join their cause," he reported. "So we'll be hard pressed to find a spy within their ranks."

"Isn't there some spell that can translate for us?" asked another member, frustrated.

Flamel fixed the man with a look. "If there is, then no one's received the memo," he deadpanned. _Idiot_, he didn't say. "If we can return to reality, however, I would suggest we assign a few of our numbers to dedicate themselves wholly to becoming translators—at least, until we can achieve some measure of integration with our foreign allies."

"We're short on manpower as it is, any further segmentation of our cells would be catastrophic to our effectiveness as a group," Bill Weasley, the eldest of the Weasley children and probably the only person who _didn't_ want to be there, spoke up. "No one's got the free time to take on another load."

"Not even yourself?" asked Kingsley archly. "If I recall correctly, you are currently unemployed, no?"

Bill glared at the man. "I'm experimenting with ward spells. Do you know how volatile those are if one does not give it one's full attention?" he snapped back.

"Easy now, gentlemen," Dumbledore smoothly interrupted the growing argument between the two wizards. Honestly, since Bill had gotten fired from Gringotts, he had been surly and directionless, forcing Dumbledore to interrupt quite a few rows.

Thankfully, both men backed down at Dumbledore's interruption, though the bitter glare that Bill was throwing Kingsley now and again told the centenarian wizard that the veteran Auror's slight wouldn't be forgotten anytime soon.

"Regardless of our personal duties, I'm afraid that Kingsley is quite right," Ginny smoothly inserted herself into the conversation once again. "If we plan to go toe-to-toe with the likes of Potter, we need additional manpower, and assimilating the foreigners seeking refuge in the UK is the best way to do so quickly."

She felt bad when she watched Bill's bitter look get aimed her way, but she had to put the interests of the cause above her brother's dispute. She loved him dearly, and still thought of him as her favourite brother, but in this case, he was unfortunately wrong.

Maybe, in a sense, Dumbledore was correct in his fears that she was obsessed with Potter, but that was an obsession born uniquely out of fascination rather than attraction. Potter had torn her world down and was now using the ashes of that destructive act to rebuild the world to his image—or so she believed. She truly had no evidence one way or another, but she was certain that the person most benefiting from the current state of affairs was Harry Potter, and that everything that went wrong for the Ministry of Magic and the Order of the Phoenix was somehow tied to him.

That meant that he saw them as a threat, which inevitably would result in open conflict between his forces and the reeling Magical World. Considering Potter had a five hundred thousand strong army whom he was, she believed, working on influencing to his side, that meant that she had to convince her colleagues that they needed greater numbers on their side if they hoped to even match his considerable forces.

She knew he would never acquiesce to being a mere servant for all his life—there was no way that was possible, not with that look in his eyes. He was a man aiming for the top, and if she was to stop him, she had to move quick.

The game was on, and the clock was ticking.

* * *

**London, United Kingdom, August 5****th****, 2010 (D-Day +556)…**

"He's getting better."

Hermione looked up from her desk at Ginny's observation, even as the redhead drank from her cup as she faced the sole window looking out of Hermione's study. "Potter?" she asked unnecessarily.

Regardless, Ginny nodded in confirmation as she set her cup back down on its plate. "Zaragoza shouldn't have fallen so quickly, even with the Military Mages," she reasoned. "It was too well dug-in; the Eastern Army had ample experience fighting him before he got caught."

Hermione shrugged as she looked back down at her work—a particularly dull deposition she had to look over before a trial the next day. "Maybe it was someone else's plan," she suggested idly.

Ginny glanced her way with a flat expression. "You don't even believe that."

Hermione nodded her head slightly. "You're right, I don't," she confirmed as she wrote down her notes on the document. "But someone's got to ask the unnecessary questions, or else we might well be overlooking someone important in his camp."

"We know who the major players are," Ginny reminded her. "Francis White; his cover uncle and a major player in Parliament…" she noted.

"Baron Warwick, his House of Lords backer, media propagandist, and major funds provider," Hermione continued idly, as though she was merely reciting from memory, which she incidentally was.

"The Goblins, another major source of funds."

"His immediate superiors in the Army; likely to pave the way for his control of the Expeditionary Forces."

"Half the bloody government's on his payroll or his uncle's, especially true now that they've been recruiting like mad and White clinched the job of overseeing the recruitment efforts."

Hermione nodded, finally putting down her pen. "And let's not forget he's practically confirmed having spies in the Ministry of Magic, too," she added.

"We've got to assume he's also been recruiting witches and wizards outside of the UK, too," Ginny opined as she leaned into her wheelchair and observed the changing color of the sky as dusk settled in. "It'd be too dumb of him not to."

"And given his wide availability of talent and staff, that means he'll have a much easier time integrating them into his power structure," Hermione reasoned from Ginny's observation. "Whereas we're bogged down on translation issues and incompatibility of laws and customs."

"Which means he's not only got a single step on us, but a whole bloody mile," Ginny concluded, looking a little depressed. "Makes one wonder whether it's even possible to win."

"He's good, but he's not invincible," Hermione pointed out. "Remember the ambush in Spain? The one where the Spanish were helped out by a Ministry witch?" she asked. "His after-combat medical report says he nearly died of his wounds. Had to cauterize his own wounds to survive as long as he did, and that nearly killed him by itself."

"And with anyone else, that might be reassurance enough, Mione, but with Potter…" Ginny countered, her voice trailing off mid-sentence.

Hermione leaned her head into an open palm and gazed at her friend inquisitively. "Are you sure Dumbledore's not a _little_ right about your fascination with Potter?" she asked carefully.

Ginny nodded once. "I'm sure," she replied honestly. "You weren't there, Mione—in Spain, that is. You didn't get to see him, talk to him, hear the way he reasons, and see his body language," she looked back at Hermione with a serious expression. "He's unlike anyone else I've ever met. To say he's driven is an understatement—he's obsessed. Nothing short of absolute, confirmed death would keep him from getting back up and trying again."

"Obsessive people make easy foes, in my experience," Hermione noted idly.

"Not when they're as smart as Potter, or as morally callous," Ginny countered, crossing her arms under her chest. "Mione, I really think he'd be willing to sacrifice anyone and anything to reach his goal—and what's worse, I don't know what that is."

"Then he's just like Voldemort," Hermione reasoned as she leaned back into her chair and stretched out her arms. "People like that don't last—they rule through fear, so once the subordinates feel empowered or they see weakness in the leader, they scatter or turn on him."

"Except he rules through respect and loyalty," Ginny informed her friend. "I was there, remember? I saw it in the people who guarded him in Spain. They all looked at him like he was Merlin himself and as if I was the lowest piece of trash there was. If he did rule through fear, don't you think his being in prison—effectively a deprivation of power—would have made them turn on him?"

Hermione stayed silent for a moment before nodding. "I see your point," she conceded. "Which explains why you fear he's already miles ahead of us. If he's capable of retaining such loyalty through imprisonment and the attacks, then he's already got a large support base, and that's likely to increase exponentially now that he's back on the front lines."

"Exactly," Ginny confirmed with a single nod, her gaze back on the sunset outside.

Hermione sighed, putting up a hand to her face to rub her temples with the tip of her fingers. "One would think that the chaos in London and throughout the world would slow him down," she griped.

"He thrives on it," Ginny said with a forlorn smile. "The more chaos there is, the more power he gets as he convinces the higher authorities to delegate to him. How else did he get the Military Mages placed under his command, despite the attacks?"

Hermione sighed. "A fair point," she conceded again. "Then the only way to stop him is to catch up, since we can't fix the chaos that empowered him in the first place," she reasoned.

"Exactly."

A small smile spread on Hermione's lips then. "Then I think I have an idea."

* * *

**Brighton, United Kingdom, August 15****th****, 2010 (D-Day +566)…**

"As far as ideas go, Mione, this was brilliant," Ginny commended her friend as she watched numerous mages walk out of the International Portkey Travel, Arrival Terminal in Brighton.

Hermione grinned at her friend before crossing her arms and smiling self-assuredly. "Thanks," she replied simply.

The duo waited until the lead wizard of the group neared them before Hermione raised a hand in greeting, which was quickly returned by the leader of the magical group.

"Thanks for coming, Viktor," Hermione thanked the man.

The Bulgarian wizard gave Hermione a tight, confident smile as he gave her a brief salute. "Anything for the beautiful princess of Hogwarts," the former Bulgarian All-Star Quidditch player answered smoothly.

Hermione's cheeks briefly pinked up at the compliment, but otherwise she kept her cool at the man's charming demeanour. "Your English has gotten quite excellent, Viktor," she complimented him before motioning to Ginny, who still sat in her wheelchair at her side. "You remember my friend Ginny, yes?"

Viktor extended his hand and shook Ginny's offered hand in greeting. "How could I not? I believe the last time we spoke, you threatened to render me infertile if I would ever harm Hermione," he joked.

Ginny, unlike Hermione, was not quite as restrained with her reactions, and grinned, amused, at the reminder of that particularly memorable talk, back in their Hogwarts days. "I'm glad to see it was so memorable that you both remembered it then, and now," she jibed right back.

Viktor laughed at the retort before flashing her an approving smile. "You have not lost that fiery spirit, I see!" he noted with a grin before looking back at Hermione. "Well then, my dear, I am here, as I said I would be," he then motioned to the group of wizards and witches behind him. "And these are my closest associates, as you requested. What can we do for you, that couldn't be discussed over the Floo or a letter?"

Hermione smiled at him, pleased with his performance, before glancing both ways and motioning for him to follow her. "Not here. Ginny and I booked a room at the Grand Hotel," she informed him.

With a nod, his bemused smile betrayed by the serious curiosity in his stare, the Bulgarian wizard and his associates followed the two British witches to the Grand Hotel, where they quickly ascended to one of the finer rooms at the disposal of the historic building.

Settling in, Viktor regarded his two hosts curiously for a moment before nodding. "Very well, assuming you both feel it is _now_ safe to talk to us, what is this all about?" he asked bluntly. "Pardon my manners, but you understand that you asked for this meeting in a rather…rushed manner, and the trip was not inexpensive."

Hermione nodded, assuming the lead in the meeting. "We appreciate what you've done, Viktor, but we need your help," she told him equally straightforward. "Dumbledore—"

She was stopped by Viktor raising one hand in a halting fashion, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Dumbledore needs us? Then why is he not here?" he asked.

Ginny sighed. "Dumbledore hasn't a clue that we called you, and he's not likely to like that we did, especially without his authorization," she informed him. "He still believes that Durmstrang has been fully compromised by the Death Eaters."

"It has," Viktor informed them rather calmly, causing Ginny to tense and Hermione to look at him in a rather odd fashion. "They took it over two years after I left. Everyone prior to that is _relatively_ trustworthy," he added then, his expression telling the two witches that he was relishing the way they had reacted to his half-truth.

"Dumbledore hasn't yet made that distinction—too much to lose if he trusts the wrong person," Ginny noted from her wheelchair. "Except, he doesn't realize he can't afford to."

Viktor rested his head on his fist now, giving an indifferent shrug as he did so. "So what does this have to do with me? I do not recall having had a good relationship with the Headmaster of Hogwarts during the Tri-Wizard Tournament, and he does not seem to want me around. So why should I care?"

"Because what's coming is a threat that won't just affect him, but all wizardkind," Hermione told him flatly as she crossed her arms under her chest. "You're not dumb, Viktor—I know you know what I'm talking about."

Again, the Bulgarian wizard shrugged. "Perhaps I do, perhaps I don't," he answered vaguely. "Who's to say I haven't been approached already?" he countered, curious to see how the two witches would react.

"You wouldn't be here if you were on _his_ side," Hermione reasoned. "Even if he wanted information on us, this would be too blunt—not his style. He's too fond of being hidden in the shadows—less evidence for us to use against him publicly."

Viktor chuckled. "True," he conceded, before giving the two witches a knowing smile. "Then, you wish to enlist my aid, and that of my associates, against the White Death?" he asked bluntly.

"You mean Potter?" asked Ginny for confirmation. Viktor shrugged.

"Potter, White—are they not both his name?" he asked, bored. "In the Ministry of Magic in Bulgaria, he is known as the White Death, because of his terrifying body count," he informed them darkly. "It was not a name lightly given."

Hermione nodded, paling a little at the infamy Potter was already garnering across the continent. "Then yes, Viktor, we want your help in opposing the White Death," she confirmed.

Viktor did not move from his place, nor did he give the two witches any form of body language that indicated cooperation. Instead, he gave the two a stony gaze and set his lips into a thin line. "Do you understand what you are requesting of me, my dear princesses?" he asked them slowly. "Bulgaria has no desire to intervene in the internal affairs of Britain. Why should I jeopardize my country's neutrality to help you?"

"Because you know Potter won't stop at Britain," Hermione told him flatly as she took a step towards him and towered over his sitting figure. "Spain ought to be proof enough of that."

Viktor looked up at the woman who had, years ago, stolen his affections. As an international Quidditch star, he'd been told countless times that he could get any woman he wanted, and there were certainly enough pretty women in Bulgaria to think he might one day get over the brunette standing in front of him. Yet, today was not that day, and his mind—no idle thing itself—knew she was right.

"You believe, then, that the British halt after Zaragoza was his idea too?" he asked evenly.

Ginny nodded. "It's the only explanation that makes sense. British High Command would have probably loved to have a single, devastating blow delivered to the Spanish government so as to end the war quickly, but only someone with an ulterior agenda, like Potter, would've preferred for the war to be extended."

Viktor again shrugged. "Perhaps," he allowed. "And yet, there is no guarantee, no solid facts, that say he will move further east than Spain," he pointed out. "So again, why should I risk my home getting dragged into this conflict?"

"Because if we don't stop him now, we won't be able to stop him later," Ginny answered firmly. "If your country has heard enough of him to call him the White Death, then what do you think he'll be capable of in a few years, when his influence and position within the British military are solidified?" she asked. "He'll be unstoppable."

Viktor's eyes narrowed as he gazed upon the two witches before him. "He already is," he told them simply.

Hermione started slightly. "I beg your pardon?" she asked, confused.

Viktor sighed as he moved to push himself out of his seat and looked back at his resting associates, none of whom seemed interested in actively participating in the conversation—undoubtedly thinking that he'd be able to handle any issues on his own. "Three weeks ago, the Bulgarian Ministry of Magic, along with a few other Eastern Ministries, dispatched an observational task force to Spain to get a handle of the situation there," he informed them. "Its job, as it were, was primarily to observe the effects of Military Mages in action. As you might now have deduced, I was part of that task force."

"So Eastern Europe is getting worried," Hermione deduced from Viktor's information. "They would have never sent any such task force unless they were anxious about British intentions."

Viktor gave a noncommittal shrug at the observation. "I am not at liberty to discuss the Ministry's worries," he told them frankly. "However, I can say that you're on the right track. Unfortunately, what we saw in Spain was enough to shock my country and others into reticence in confronting the Military Mages," he informed them before shaking his head sadly. "I am sorry, but I cannot cooperate with you on this. Bulgaria has made it clear that it wants nothing to do with the British forces, both offensively and defensively. The Ministry, unfortunately, concurs."

Hermione took a few steps forward until she was but inches from the former Quidditch Star-turned-Ministry Hit Wizard. With the increasing instability throughout Europe caused by the Big Reveal, the regional Ministries had all but conscripted the very best of their societies into their policing ranks.

"Viktor, you know Potter needs to be stopped now," she pleaded with him.

Viktor again shrugged, although it was easy to see he was uncomfortable with so easily dismissing Hermione. "I am sorry, my fair princess," he apologized sincerely. "If it were to up us," he jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards his associates, who had been quietly listening in on the conversation. "We would stand with you in this fight, but I cannot risk drawing Bulgaria into a war she cannot win."

Viktor raised his hands and put them on Hermione's shoulders, bowing his head apologetically as he did so. "I am _truly_ sorry," he repeated himself before looking over his shoulder at his people and barking out, "Тръгваме!"

With scattered nods and grunts, the people who had accompanied Viktor got to their feet and gave brief thanks to Ginny and Hermione for the accommodations before trailing out of the room, soon leaving Viktor alone with both witches.

Putting his hands back at his sides, Viktor leaned towards Hermione and kissed her on the cheek. "Be well," he told her genuinely. "I am sorry I could not be of more comfort in these trying times," he apologized then to Ginny as he nodded respectfully before leaving.

Ginny sighed. The meeting had gone less productively than she wished it had, but she could understand where Viktor was coming from. Drawing Bulgaria into the Anglo-Spanish War would have catastrophic consequences for the comparatively underdeveloped nation, especially now that the Military Mages had made their power known to the continent and the world at large.

Hermione, for her part, collapsed onto the luxurious bed and lay there, one arm across her eyes to hide her feelings. "That was a disaster," she commented blithely.

Ginny nodded in her wheelchair beside the bed. "Unfortunate, but understandable," she agreed. "We should have seen this sort of reaction coming. There aren't many who would willfully go up against the odds we're proposing without thinking of the consequences."

"Maybe we should have only asked for translators?" Hermione suggested.

Ginny shook her head. "Any help at all would be enough for Potter and his ilk to brand the Ministry as traitors and the Bulgarians as enemies," she reasoned. "Viktor knows this. He can't be seen associating with us any more than he already has."

Hermione sighed aloud again, before descending into silence for a while as both witches digested how badly the meeting had gone, in regards to their agenda.

"What about Beauxbatons and the French Ministry?" asked Ginny then. "Maybe Fleur would use her family to intercede on our behalf before the French authorities?"

Hermione shook her head, her curled hair getting messed up with the friction against the bed sheets. "Week too late," she recounted. "Beauxbatons was closed by the French government, and the Delacours have gone missing after allegedly refusing to register before the French authorities."

"Fled, you reckon?" asked Ginny.

Hermione shook her head. "Arrested, more likely, or killed. Media's full of stories of fanatic right-wingers in France conducting extra-judicial killings of known, unregistered magic users."

Ginny grimaced, finding the news distasteful. "Then we're down on Eastern Europe and France," she concluded, feeling a little depressed at how many of their attempted counter-plans to Potter's actions were failing. "That leaves Ireland."

Hermione had a doubtful expression on her face. "Do you really think they'll agree?" she asked dubiously. "They've no more reason to help us than Viktor."

Ginny shook her head in disagreement. "On the contrary, they've probably been feeling the threat of Potter and the British more acutely than anyone else," she countered. "If Britain does fall to Potter, who do you think will be his next target? France? Unlikely—his military strength may be strong, but Potter's no fool. He needs to neutralize any flanking threats before going for the biggest power on the continent," she reasoned.

Hermione was silent for a moment, digesting her friend's accurate analysis. To be honest, much of this situation was well beyond her usual spheres of academic interest, so she was content with leaving much of the tactical analysis to Ginny, who seemed to have a better mind for this. In a perfect world, she would have thought Ron to be a better candidate, given his adoration for tactics, be they on the Quidditch field, on a chessboard, or while working for the Aurors. However, their relationship had been irreparably damaged by his infidelity, and as far as she knew, Ginny and her brother were barely on speaking terms as a result.

Sighing, she closed her eyes as her mind came to a sole conclusion. "Seamus, then?"

Ginny nodded from her place beside the bed, her thin fingers interwoven on top of her lap. "Seamus," she confirmed, hoping her other former boyfriend would agree to their request.

* * *

**Liverpool, United Kingdom, September 10****th****, 2010 (D-Day +592)…**

Maybe it was divine providence, or perhaps it was just dumb luck, but Seamus did agree to intervene on their behalf before a few Irish colleagues he had from the old days. Moreover, the talks had, unlike those with the Bulgarians, gone well, culminating with an unofficial agreement from many Irish officials to cooperate regarding information exchange and translations with the Order of the Phoenix.

The problem, however, was that the Order's newest allies were way ahead regarding their analysis of Harry Potter's potential threat to their way of life and, while they had managed to convince the Irish government of their status as a non-threat, they didn't think Potter would let that slide if, or rather when he took power in Britain.

This, notably, made them quite vocal proponents of eliminating Potter immediately, rather than later. Dumbledore, however, was firm in his position that unless Potter was deemed beyond redemption, he would never lend his agreement or support in an assassination attempt on the man's life.

This was a huge problem for Ginny, as it meant that Seamus kept pestering her regarding the Irish delegation's discontent with Dumbledore's leadership, while Hermione relayed to her the irritation being felt by the more orthodox Order members, who saw the Irish demands as unwanted interference in the traditional Order power structure.

On the plus side, however, the Irish agreement to provide professional-grade translators had allowed the Order to recruit more people in the days since, resulting in Order recruit intakes going up by 300% over the usual rate. The problem now became where to lodge all these new people, as most of them were refugees from the Continent who'd come to Britain to escape persecution. The Muggle government, however, wanted no part in housing the refugees, and claimed this was a Ministry matter due to their magical nature. The Ministry, on the other hand, was adamant that magical refugees fell under the 1951 Refugee Act of the United Kingdom, arguing that the national governments on the Continent and elsewhere were persecuting their magical populations—a charge that the British government rejected as baseless, and which the other nations across the globe, using the British response as a precedent, also dismissed.

The result was that the British government had passed a law requiring the Ministry of Magic to house and police any magical person or creature that refused to register with the Muggle authorities, but only as long as the full breadth of the British national registration system was still in the works. After it were finished, registration would be compulsory, on pain of imprisonment.

As far as laws went, it was among the most lenient in Europe regarding the status of magical persons.

This did little to alleviate Ginny's headache, however, as it meant that, thanks to her connections to Seamus and Hermione, she was looked at as the person in charge of foreign relations, and the demands from the refugee community were mounting without any seeming solution in sight.

Hogsmeade alone had seen its population rise explosively, to the point where it was impossible to hide the village with magic anymore. Not that it could be called a village, at this point—it had all the makings of a major town, or small city; at least, wizard-wise. With the fall of the magic wards, however, there now was the problem that the major settlement's location had been leaked to the Muggles, which had caused quite a large crowd of angry protesters and bigots to accumulate nearby, demanding that the mages surrender to the state or leave.

A few of them even demanded the outright extermination of all magic users.

Tensions had thus risen daily until Dumbledore had acquiesced the town's relocation to within Hogwarts grounds, and the gates leading out of the valley were torn down and rebuilt to accommodate the bigger threat. Hogwarts was now effectively isolated from the outside world, a small city-state within the United Kingdom.

That was the problem, really. There were numerous other city-states rising across the islands, though more and more of them were being forced to move further north into Scotland as England, Wales, and Northern Ireland came under the strict controls enacted by the military government in power. Well, ostensibly, it was still a civilian government sitting in Westminster, but the real power, everyone knew, lay in the hands of the military.

Regardless, it made for a very difficult position for the mages to have. The Ministry of Magic, already under government audit for suspicious administrative practices, had been forced to relocate many of their operatives from London to the growing townships across Scotland. It didn't help that many of these towns had grown so fast that they too were forced to fortify their town limits as a precaution against Muggle raids.

Perhaps the largest indicator of how bad things had gotten was the fact that Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had finally been ordered to shut down operations as an educational facility. The order had come from the government three days ago, and the news had crushed many a teacher, student, or aspiring student. The school had been predictably deemed "unsafe, not in line with the national curriculum, and in violation of several educational and children's welfare statutes," none of which could be proved wrong as a result of the danger that a Muggle would face trying to navigate the eccentric building.

Scrimgeour's government had heavily protested, of course. They argued that Hogwarts fell within regulations enacted by the Ministry, and that the castle was perfectly safe. The problem was, however, that as the Ministry was under government audit, most, if not all of its legislation—past and present—were being suspended and effectively replaced with their Muggle counterparts. Thus, legally, the Muggle government was right.

Thus, the teachers of Hogwarts were suspended from providing standardized education to their students, and Dumbledore had his license as Headmaster suspended pending official investigation by the Department of Education. As a private school, it shouldn't have had this much trouble with the government, but as the Ministry of Magic was the one to give them their educational license, it had been equally suspended, thus falling within Muggle purview.

As a result, education had reverted to home schooling, which was one thing that the Muggles couldn't prevent. However, it made for many a frustrated parent and many unemployed former teachers, all of whom couldn't be hired as "teachers," per se, but had to do a whole song and dance routine so that they could be hired by each household as "domestic consultants." Even _then_, they couldn't actually _teach_ the children, but had to make them learn by casually performing, repeatedly, banal housework and talking to themselves in a loud voice regarding magical theory.

In short, it was ridiculous, but with the wards down, there was the very serious risk that if the Muggles believed the witches and wizards were in rebellion, they would bomb the valley and every other rising town into a crater preemptively. It was better, then, to simply bow their heads for now while they worked on making improved wards, courtesy of her brother, Bill.

Right now, however, she had to go and justify her decision to have part of the Lake built over artificially to accommodate another district, as the explosive population expansion was rapidly swallowing up the land around the castle.

Notably, the Merpeople had voiced their (shrill) displeasure to Dumbledore, and he had wanted her to justify herself before him and a few of her peers.

"It's not that we don't understand _why_ you wish to expand the settlement, Miss Weasley," McGonagall, ever Dumbledore's trusted second, said soothingly, "but rather why you decided to expand it over the Lake, of all places."

Ginny nudged her thumb towards the window. "Unfortunately, it's the only place left for suitable, short run expansion," she told the group before her, which included Dumbledore, McGonagall, Flitwick, Hermione, Ron, and Shacklebolt. "By just setting up the necessary foundations into the lakebed, we can hold up a decent district in a short period of time, compared to reclaiming settlement lands from the Forbidden Forest, and inciting the displeasure of the centaurs, who are already on tense terms with us as it is."

"The Merpeople have inhabited the Black Lake for centuries, Miss Weasley; surely, you can understand their aggravation with such artificial defiling," Dumbledore spoke next. "I'm sure that the centaurs could be negotiated with to allow our boundaries to expand further into Forest grounds."

Ginny sighed. It wasn't a secret that many of the magical community, whether Dumbledore or the humblest cobbler, had some measure of prejudice against the Centaurs. It wasn't hard to harbor that sort of resentment against a race that was almost always antagonistic and arrogant. However, unlike the Merpeople, Centaurs were harder to control, and if they were pushed any further, they were just as likely to initiate raids on the growing settlement.

"We already tried," Ron interjected then, to the surprise of all involved. "We needed to accommodate a new training field near the forest boundaries to train our newest recruits, but they threatened retribution if the Forest boundaries were breached. They see it as their natural home, and won't give it up anytime soon," he reported as he leaned back into his chair and crossed his arms, his gaze on his sister. "I think Ginny's got the right idea. The Merpeople haven't had to sacrifice anything as of yet, while everyone else has. Let them swallow their pride."

"I…agree," Hermione was slow to provide her agreement, given the fact that her ex had lent his. "The Merpeople are reasonable creatures. I'm sure we could convince them that we won't expand further than a certain amount over the lake."

Flitwick was unnaturally calm as he pondered the arguments being offered. "What about magical expansion?" he asked, his squeaky voice tempered by gravity.

Ginny looked at Hermione, who was technically in charge of actually making the settlements—she personally just decided _where_.

Her friend was quick to come to her defense, thankfully. "Each district has been put under as much magical expansion as they can handle," the witch reported. "Anything further will just cause the current spells to degrade over time, and the end result would be…bad," she concluded euphemistically.

Flitwick nodded, tapping his entwined hands with one, loose finger. "Very well then," he eventually said, leaning back as well and folding his hands on his tiny lap. "I agree with Miss Weasley's proposal as well."

Three votes for, three unspoken. She needed just one more to get the proposal through. She glanced at Dumbledore, then at McGonagall. While the elderly witch was infamous for being of independent mind, the loss of her career—indeed, the outright rejection of her career's usefulness towards her pupils—by the Muggle government had been a devastating blow to her pride and ego. So much so that she was often seen agreeing numbly with whatever Dumbledore said. It was a damned shame, but as there was no way to get her license back without first undergoing a grueling, vicious review by the Department of Education, they had to resign themselves that this broken shell of a formidable woman would be a constant fixture for some time yet.

"Against," Dumbledore simply said—no surprise there. The Merpeople had been his traditional allies and had been a fantastic source of information whenever he needed discreet scouts in areas with rivers, lakes, or seaside.

"Against," McGonagall said simply, though Ginny could easily see the vacant, broken look in her eyes. Not surprising at all there either.

Shacklebolt, however, was the real swing vote here. He was as taciturn as he was imposing, and his only allegiance seemed to be to what he personally believed was the greater good. That meant that neither Dumbledore nor Ginny could predict what he would do—only that it would be what Shacklebolt believed to be the "right" choice.

The bald, black man seemed to understand that he was being waited on, but made no hurry in voicing his vote. He wouldn't be rushed, and no amount of complaining would make him budge from his convictions. Crossing his arms over his broad chest, he closed his eyes and leaned forward his head, such that his chin rested on his collarbone. He pondered the options offered long and hard, his only fear being making the wrong choice.

Eventually, however, he settled on one choice, though he remained in his pondering position. "For," his deep voice rumbled. He then opened his eyes and straightened up in his chair. "Mr. Weasley has made a valid point," he added. "The Merpeople have so far been asked to sacrifice nothing for the benefit of the growing community, while the Centaurs have been made to sacrifice already an acre of Forest grounds. Let the Merpeople shoulder the burden this time around."

Ginny breathed a sigh of relief, though she knew better than to thank the man as though he'd done this as a favor. He hadn't. Shacklebolt would've just as soon voted for the other side than make an executive-level decision on the basis of friendship. That was what made him a great field leader.

She watched as Dumbledore sighed in resignation, while McGonagall had no real change of expression from her blank look. Flitwick seemed uncaring about the whole ordeal, while Ron was glancing towards Hermione before shrugging to himself. Only Hermione seemed genuinely happy for her. Whatever joy was gained, however, was quickly dashed as a prim-looking witch in business robes suddenly opened the door to Dumbledore's office and marched right in, the perfect picture of professionalism. In her hands was what seemed to be a piece of paper that, considering the tense posture the woman was carrying as she handed it over to Dumbledore, gave Ginny a sinking feeling in her stomach.

Sure enough, Dumbledore's features creased into a concerned frown as he perused the document offered to him by the prim witch. "Thank you, Agatha," he mumbled as he took in the paper's contents. After a moment, he looked up at his board colleagues and gave them a flat stare. "We have a new problem," he announced, waving his wand idly and causing the paper to duplicate itself over and over until there were enough copies for all, each copy flying to its new owner.

Each member of the Provisional Governance Board reacted differently to the document. Shacklebolt retained his stony, blank look, though his brows scrunched up together imperceptibly; McGonagall's mouth tightened into a thin line—the most emotion the witch had shown in a week; Ron had reddened and started to curse under his breath; Flitwick had a grave, troubled look on his face; and Hermione had blanched, obviously a little shaken by the message.

Thankfully, she didn't have to wait long to find out what it was about, as Hermione passed her own copy to her, which Ginny thankfully took, despite the frown from Dumbledore.

It appeared the document wasn't really a document—more of a flyer, or pamphlet.

REGISTRATION IS SALVATION

REFUSAL IS TREASON

Ginny's mouth pursed into a thin line. This wasn't a surprise, but it _was_ worrisome. She had already seen such posters all over London and a few other cities in England, but none ever within magical communities. Those who registered with the Muggle authorities tended to become _persona non grata_ amongst their friends, family, and colleagues, so there were very low odds of a registered wizard or witch living within their community without everyone else knowing about it.

"That's some reach the Muggles have," Shacklebolt noted flatly. "They have a spy within the town."

"There are thousands of copies all over town," the prim witch reported, her concern bleeding through her tone. "Leaflets and posters. The community is demanding answers."

Ginny stayed silent as the board debated amongst itself, carefully analyzing what the group's options were.

"We can't just inform the villagers that the town's security has been compromised," Ron argued. "It's bad enough that the population is on edge from the fact that there are daily mass Muggle gatherings outside the Valley Gate, demanding our surrender. Adding fuel to that fire will just open us up to further security breaches with the subsequent chaos."

"Yet they must be calmed and reassured," Dumbledore observed. "We cannot do that with vague lies, not after everything that's happened. We have, I fear, reached the end of the line regarding the people's willingness to blindly listen to the Order's directives," he analyzed.

"We can argue a leaflet drop, like the ones that the Muggles performed in World War II," Hermione proposed. "It would explain the leaflets."

"And the posters?" Flitwick asked immediately. "How do we explain how some of these leaflets attached themselves to walls?"

Shacklebolt grimaced. "Fear of the Muggles is bad enough. Collaborators? We'd have anarchy on our hands," he predicted.

"We can just tell the truth that we have a spy in our midst," McGonagall suggested, a little weakly for Ginny's tastes. "Maybe the community itself will resolve the problem."

"We'd be initiating a, pardon the pun, witch hunt," Ginny interrupted the discussion just then. "The community would turn on itself and we would inevitably have to intervene with spell fire, which is just what the Muggles want," she argued. "Once we fire a shot into a crowd, no matter the circumstances, the magical community will lose its faith in the Order, and turn to the next best security-provider: the Ministry, which happens to be under the thumb of the Death Eaters."

"Not all of it," Dumbledore protested. "We have our operatives in the Ministry, same as the Death Eaters, Miss Weasley," he reminded her.

Ginny stared down Dumbledore for a moment before scoffing softly. "Our agents are outnumbered in the Ministry and outranked by theirs. Only Scrimgeour is of high enough rank and with us, and that's not even a guarantee. Best case scenario, if we lose the people's trust? He'll launch a coup and regain his position on top of us."

"Surely the Minister wouldn't be so political at a time like this," McGonagall protested.

Ginny eyed the poor woman, a little sad that the brilliant witch had decayed to this state over the loss of her career and destruction of her achievements. "That's exactly what he'll do, and the Muggles are counting on it," she assured everyone present. The prim witch twitched a bit, and Ginny's eye lingered on her for a moment—she seemed…familiar, somehow. Pushing the thought out of her mind, she returned to the issue at hand. "If we incite any sort of instability amongst ourselves, the Muggles will stand by while we destroy each other. Then, they just have to sweep in and assimilate what's left."

"So they're turning the Death Eaters' tactics on them," Dumbledore reasoned. "Voldemort and his followers won't just stand by and watch the Ministry collapse—not after all the work he's put into that plan. He'll try to reassert order just when the timing couldn't be worse."

"Exactly," Ginny confirmed, one eye still on the prim witch. For some reason, the woman's eyes really reminded her of someone, but she couldn't remember who.

"It's a smart move," Ron observed as he leaned forward on the table. "If we add up all the magic users in Britain, we've got a fair population going. If we started killing each other again, however, we would cut a huge swathe in that number. We'd be easy pickings then."

"In that case, how do we deal with the agent situation?" asked Hermione. "We can't initiate a hunt for them, or we'll look like we're desperate and losing control, but if we leave them be, we'll lose control of the population sooner rather than later."

Silence descended on the group then, as each member pondered the situation. Only the prim witch stayed silent, having not been dismissed yet. She seemed…anxious for orders, fidgeting every so often, though the others didn't seem to take notice of her. Only Ginny did, and she swore that the woman seemed familiar. Not facially, or even physically. Rather, it was that stare of hers. Like she'd seen that particular expression she'd briefly caught a glimpse of when the witch had looked at her. It nagged at her memory, but nothing concrete came up. Maybe she was just imagining it? Perhaps confusing her with some other past encounter?

Unknowing of the internal musings of the youngest Weasley, Dumbledore sighed loudly as no one spoke up at Hermione's question after a few minutes. "I think we've spoken on this long enough for today," he said wearily. "We're all undoubtedly tired after a long day. Shall we dismiss and reconvene tomorrow?" he proposed.

A spatter of relieved agreements rose from the council members, who were all just glad the meeting was over for the day. A few were more relieved than others, given their respective workloads. Nonetheless, Ginny waited until the proceedings were wrapped up and Hermione got up from her chair, giving only a passing, wondering look at her brother as he passed by her, deliberately ignoring her apparently.

Once Hermione was ready to go, she accompanied the witch out of the office and down Dumbledore's staircase. It was then that she realized that she hadn't noticed the prim witch leave before all of them, having apparently slipped out just before they had dismissed themselves.

Looking towards her best friend, Ginny decided to bring the topic of the witch up. "Say, Hermione, have you ever met that witch who delivered the pamphlet before?" she asked bluntly.

Hermione's answer was rather quick. "I don't think so," the brunette admitted. "But then, I did hear that the administrative staff had hired a few more witches. Maybe she's one of them?" she suggested. "Why are you asking?" she asked curiously.

Ginny shrugged. "She seemed…familiar," she admitted without reservations. Hermione was her closest friend, after all, and the two witches had looked out for each other for years now. Who could she trust if not her sister in all but blood? "I just can't pin down from where…"

Hermione looked at her friend a little worriedly. "Familiar how? Good familiar, like from a pleasant memory? Or bad familiar?" she asked. "She's not someone from your pre-injury Auror days, is she?"

Ginny shook her head. "Like I said, she just seemed familiar," Ginny reassured her. "And I don't remember if it's pleasant or bad. Just…the look on her face when she saw me. A mixture of defiance and…resentment?" she trailed off, something about that word reminding her of something further.

Hadn't she met someone who'd looked at her like that before? Hadn't it been in…Spain, was it?

Wait a minute…Spain. She had been there to capture Potter, and succeeded only because the whole world knew of him then and the Prime Minister had been forced to incarcerate him. He'd looked at her rather viciously during their initial conversations.

No…it wasn't Potter. He wouldn't stoop to dressing like a girl. Or spying on others so dangerously.

Wait.

Like a girl?

Didn't Potter have a girl who followed him around?

Ginny stopped in her tracks, having missed anything Hermione had been talking to her about. It was only when Hermione spoke her name, worriedly, that Ginny snapped out of her musings, having finally reached the answer to the nagging question in her mind: who had that prim witch reminded her of?

Josefina.

Potter's follower.

A _spy_.

"Oh _bloody hell_," she swore.

* * *

**Hogwarts, United Kingdom, September 15****th****, 2010 (D-Day +597)…**

In the end, no sign could be found of the prim witch that had reported to the council that day. Literally not a single trace of her had been found, and that was what convinced Ginny that this was the work of Potter. It was too clean, too professional, and too directed at shaking up the leadership's psychological state not to be. The government itself needed no such tactics—with a single law, it could possibly wipe them all out. Potter, on the other hand, wanted them rattled, on the verge of panic; panic that he could then use to manipulate them into striking first and in so doing justify his own claim to power.

She couldn't allow that, of course, and thus tried to use Hermione as the voice of reason within the makeshift group.

It was a cunning strategy, one that kept him out of the limelight and thus out of public scrutiny. Yet, she knew that if she didn't manage to drag him onto the stage, he would get away with this, and more.

She was certain, _certain_ that Josefina's presence as the spy had been deliberately planned by Potter himself. A message to those who knew of her, at least, that plainly said:

_I am everywhere, and see everything. More importantly, __**you can't stop me**__._

It was galling of him, but Ginny knew his message was just as accurate. Until they found a way to accurately root out the identities of all his spies, Potter could infiltrate the Ministry of Magic and the Order of the Phoenix with impunity. More importantly, they needed to find out _how_ he was gaining these spies. So far, there had been no sign of the Unforgivables being used, nor had anyone in sensitive areas tested positive for any sort of poison or potion that would explain hidden compulsions. That meant the spies were all such out of free will, probably, which meant in turn that they had no way of getting their identities unless they themselves got themselves caught or were sold out by a comrade.

At the moment, Ginny sincerely doubted either would happen.

Wandering idly around the town, she pondered on the problem silently. One way to potentially counter Potter's growing influence was to frame him and his Military Mages for some ghastly deed, but she doubted she could get that passed by the Order, or even Hermione for that matter; and if she couldn't convince her closest friend of it, what chance did she have of convincing total strangers?

Another way, she figured, was to rattle Potter himself. Maybe target his family, or any exes and current girlfriends. Hit him where he never expected anyone to reach. Again, though, there was the problem of getting such a plan through the Order. Being the Light-obsessed zealots they were, Ginny doubted she could get such a ruthless plan through the voting procedure.

Frustration crept up within her as she realized how utterly inhibited she was within the Order. She knew she'd lobbied to be allowed back, but she had never expected them to be so stubborn and unwilling to change. Even those who were willing to stand up to Dumbledore were too morally uptight to condone attacks on so-called "innocents."

It was maddening, really. No matter how many plans she thought up to counter Potter, no one was willing to listen. If she suggested a hit, it was decried as murder. If she suggested a kidnapping, it was shot down as monstrous.

Honestly, how was she supposed to help the Order counter a military threat when they refused to let her think and act along military lines? The way they were handicapping her, she might as well be fighting Potter's rising influence with a hard-boiled egg!

Silently raging as she was, she was thus ignorant of two people coming into her office on the castle's second floor until one of them coughed to get her attention. Snapping out of her reverie, she was immediately tempted to go for her wand and ask questions later, but relaxed upon realizing it was one of the few men she could trust with keeping her confidence without informing Dumbledore or anyone else on the Council—even Hermione.

"Who's your friend, Colin?" she asked curiously as she carefully inspected the almost drooling man beside her subordinate. He had a look of total wonder and joy about him that frankly unsettled her.

Colin rolled his eyes. "Not my friend," he replied tersely. "Found him scurrying in the back alleys; apparently, he's been living there practically from two days after the settlement was moved to the valley."

It was a testament to the bitterness that the Great Reveal had caused among many of the Muggleborn population that Colin Creevy, once a bright, excitable young man, had turned into a terse, bitter man who obeyed her orders without question and enforced her will wherever he could. It probably hadn't helped that his Muggle parents had been killed during an anti-mage riot.

Ginny eyed the ecstatic man still held onto by Colin. Was he one of those very spies Josefina's presence had gloated about? She discreetly grabbed her wand under the table and performed a magical reveal spell on him, only to be surprised when nothing came up.

Colin, however, wasn't fooled. "He's a Muggle, alright," he confirmed. "Checked him out myself when I realized he wasn't listed in the census," he added. "Not one of Potter's, either."

Ginny leaned her head into an open palm as she regarded the man. He was thin—sickly so; probably as a result of living in the back alleys all this time. His eyes, however, were lit with something akin to wondrous joy, as though he was exactly where he wanted to be. He wasn't armed, since Colin would've checked for that before bringing him here, so it didn't look like this was an assassination attempt.

"Who are you?" she settled for asking directly. No sense beating around the bush.

The man looked even more ecstatic than before, if that was possible. "G-George Ackerman, oh great, hallowed witch!" he presented himself in a simpering manner, falling to his knees and everything.

Ginny raised an eyebrow at the display and glanced at Colin, who shrugged. "He did the same to me when I questioned him," he confirmed.

Ginny returned her attention to George Ackerman and kept her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Tell me, George: why are you here in a magical town?" she asked. "You do know that Muggles are heavily discouraged from entering the town limits, no?" A pretty way to say they were outright forbidden and typically held back by force as a result of the mass riots outside the valley gates, but still valid.

Her observation did little to thwart the man's excitement, it seemed. If anything, he got even more riled up. "I couldn't help it, great witch!" he cried out. "I couldn't! Everyone with a brain knows you are the next step in our evolution!" he added fervently, a tinge of mania in his eyes. "You are the future! We are the past! Doesn't it make sense, then, that we normal people should work for those who will illuminate our path to a better future?"

Ginny glanced at Colin while the man spoke, noticing her subordinate's eyes roll as the obviously crazy man ranted on about how subservience to the empowered next step in human evolution was the logical choice. Clearly, this man was intellectually deficient, if he believed the Magical leadership anywhere had any intentions of leading their fellow men into a brighter future. If anything, it would revert to a society where normal folk would become second-class citizens, if not worse.

Still…

Ginny observed the man again. For all his craziness, he did seem genuinely willing to serve her, as though being her subordinate were the greatest gift anyone could give him. His vocabulary wasn't shoddy, either, meaning he had to have some form of education under his belt.

Given that all her avenues of attacking Potter were exhausted, why not look into this particular venue? He seemed willing, fanatically devoted, and honestly crazy enough to attempt to infiltrate the most powerful man in Europe's growing faction.

Perhaps this was the break she had long been waiting for?

She gave George Ackerman a glowing smile as she realized the countless opportunities he could bring her. The man, in turn, seemed euphoric at the gesture. Certainly, that tinge of mania in his eyes seemed more pronounced than ever.

"Are you alone in your beliefs, George?" she then asked kindly, eager to hear his response. As she'd hoped, he shook his head fervently, apparently so enraptured that he no longer could formulate words. "I want you to contact them, George; do you understand me?" she asked.

The man fervently nodded, while Colin gave his superior an cautious glance. What was she playing at?

Ginny, however, kept her focus on the simpering man. "Tell them to get in touch with Mr. Creevy here," she then added, motioning to Colin, who looked surprised. "Then come see me later; I may have a job for you."

The man was practically salivating from joy as he listened to the great mage bestow upon him the honor of carrying out a mission for her. How he'd longed for this day since the Great Reveal. How he'd ached to serve those obviously superior specimens of humanity!

Now he had his chance. Now he had one's attention. He would not fail.

"Yes, great witch," he said subserviently as he tried to kneel to Ginny, only to be held up by the scruff of his shirt by Colin.

"None of that," Colin groused, obviously unhappy with being the contact point for a group of crazies.

Ginny smiled at the display. "Dismissed."

* * *

_Post-AN: And with this chapter, one now knows what happened to Durmstrang and Beauxbatons. Ginny's also revealed to be alive, and problems with leadership are arising all over the Magical community. While I understand this chapter was too little focused on Harry's own development, I hope you all understand that knowing how the other side is operating can shed some light as to how Harry gets away with the things he does._

_Till next time!_

_Marquis Black  
_


	7. Chapter VI: The Battle of Sagunto

_**AN: **Sorry about the delay, massive writer's block on my part kept this chapter from getting written._

* * *

**Zaragoza, Spain, September 17****th****, 2010 (D-Day +599)…**

"What is benevolence?"

Neville looked up from his hand-washing ritual to look at Harry's back in surprise. "What?" he asked, confused. The question had well and truly come out of the blue.

"What is benevolence?" Harry repeated, still staring at the smoking ruin that once was known as the city of Zaragoza. "What is that theory of being charitable and kind, as opposed to pragmatic and brutal?"

Neville stared at his superior's back blankly for a moment before shrugging and looking back down at the reddish water in the bucket he'd been using to clean his hands. "Beats me," he replied honestly, having no clue where Harry was going with this impromptu philosophical stint. "Sounds like a load of crap."

Harry shrugged. "Maybe it is," he allowed. "Maybe ruling in favour of benevolence is a fool's errand in times of chaos. But without benevolence, how does one get the people's loyalty?"

Neville was silent at this question, looking into the rippling, reddish water that had once been clear. Like much of his recent life, it was tainted now, perhaps irreparably so. "Having second thoughts?" he asked softly.

"If I am?"

Neville's gaze hardened as he redirected it back at Harry, who had now turned slightly to look down at his finest subordinate. It hadn't even been half a year since Neville had been sprung from a life sentence in Azkaban by Sirius Black and his cohorts, and already Neville was proving to be one of Harry's most devastating commanders.

"I would kill you," Neville replied bluntly and honestly, now getting back to his hand washing.

Harry chuckled. "So honest," he mused, amused.

"You rescued me from a life of dreariness and mediocrity, and for that I'm thankful," Neville countered simply, ignoring the fact that his wet hands were beginning to prune from the excess water exposure. "Your uncle saved me from Azkaban; I'm also thankful for that. Your goal saved me from living an aimless life, relegated to impotent obscurity; I am thankful for that, too."

In a flash, Neville was on his feet and had a handful of Harry's uniform in his grasp as he pulled up his commander close, until Neville's burning gaze was unmistakeable to Harry. Said raven-haired Military Mage was apparently unaffected by the stare.

"I'm thankful for all that, yeah," Neville reiterated. "But what we've done for all of that; what we've prepared ourselves to do to see that goal achieved…you can't just go and drop it all at a moment's notice," he stated fiercely. "If you do, I'll kill you."

Harry smiled easily, despite the fact that he would probably have a hard fight on his hands if Neville ever did in fact rebel against him. He smiled, however, because he knew that battle would not happen today—if ever.

Instead, he reached up with a gloved hand and clasped it on Neville's wrist. "Then you have nothing to worry about," he said simply. "I haven't forgotten, nor am I willing to forsake that path that I chose when I involved myself in this."

With that, he suddenly tightened his hold on Neville's wrist, causing the man's hand to jerk in surprise and let go of Harry's uniform; now it was Harry who was in control. Still, he dropped his grasp from his friend and turned back to observe the smouldering ruins of Zaragoza.

"Remember those feelings, Neville; they will guide you down the right path," he told to his subordinate, who was now rubbing his slightly aching wrist. "We have eliminated much of the resistance of Eastern Spain, and with this victory, we have done much to cripple their fighting spirit," he observed. "A little more, and we'll have broken this country to our will."

Neville glanced at his superior searchingly. "What do you have in mind?" he asked. Frankly, he would be glad to be off the front lines, even if he hadn't been on them for long. Nothing could have prepared him for the sheer destruction he had been expected to bring upon his enemies. Even the most basic rookie of the Military Mages—those who would barely qualify as an Auror any other day—had exceeded Neville's own contributions for the first few days.

Harry was silent for a moment, as though weighing how deeply to bring in Neville in his confidence. Apparently, trusting the man won out. "Reconstruction," he said simply. "We have won the people's fear here, but not their love, or even respect. If left alone, they will eventually seek revenge on us for what has happened, and we must nip this problem in the bud."

"Your uncle agrees," came a voice behind Neville, causing the brown-haired man to turn suddenly, a spell already on his lips in the event that he had to vaporize someone on the spot. Thankfully, he didn't.

"Xeno," Harry greeted. "How was London?"

"Bad," Harry's all-but-in-name intelligence officer reported. "Riots every day. Every garden variety, too," Xenophilius added. "Anti-mage riots, anti-government riots, anti-war riots…every activist and his _dog_'s come out of the woodwork to promote their agenda, it seems."

"So the news of the attacks' actual breadth have finally leaked out?" Neville asked.

"Just a bit of it," Xenophilius corrected him as he dropped his travelling bag on the ground and took a seat on a pile of rubble nearby. "Warwick's doing a splendid job of keeping most of the bad stuff under wraps, but the numbers, at least, have been released."

"Worried we'll lose control, Neville?" Harry asked calmly.

"Isn't it a legitimate concern to have?" Neville shot back. "If the government back home collapses, how are we supposed to keep our forces here?"

"It won't collapse," Xenophilius assured the younger man blandly. "Black's got the government covered. The only way for it to collapse now is if we let it."

"Of course, that's not all there is to it, is it, Master Lovegood?" asked Harry, chuckling.

Xenophilius switched his gaze from Neville to Harry, who'd turned slightly to face his subordinate. He had a sly smile on his face, too, which made Xenophilius think that perhaps Harry already knew what he was asking him to report about.

Eventually, he nodded. "Your higher ups are beginning to muscle out the civilian administration," he reported. "Black's reported that security is now entirely out of his hands, and there's talk about Education being reassigned to the military administrators, too."

"A coup?" Neville asked, surprised.

"A subtle one, if it is," Xenophilius commented with a grimace. "They haven't touched Warwick, though, and he hasn't mentioned getting approached by the military."

"Which means either they're taking it slow, or it's just some higher-up's move to stabilize the country," Harry concluded, bringing up his hand to cup his chin. "Interesting."

"Either is feasible," Xenophilius added. "We've got riots in the streets everywhere, and at the same time, the military is pretty much the only thing keeping the country on its two legs. Frankly, if they wanted to coup, there wouldn't be any sort of united front to stop them."

"Has force been used to put down the riots?" asked Harry then.

Xenophilius shrugged. "No more than usual; police batons and the like."

Harry nodded, still pensive. "I see…" he mused to himself softly. "A little soon, but not unexpected…What about the mages? What have they been doing?"

"Josefina reported in that your little shock tactic worked; Hogwarts is a mess right now," Xenophillius reported dutifully. "Started a veritable witch hunt, if you pardon the expression, for spies."

"And the Ministry?"

"Still infested with Death Eaters, I'm afraid," he replied, noticing Neville's dark look at the news. "Scrimgeour is on the verge of resigning, if my information's correct; looks like a Death Eater will be in the Minister's chair before long."

"Why don't they assassinate him?" asked Neville then. "Surely with his death, they could precipitate a regime change?"

"To what end?" asked Xenophilius in Harry's stead. "If power switches hands through murder, it's illegitimate, and what the Death Eaters want most right now is legitimacy. If they're seen by even just a fraction of the magical population as the legitimate government, then their power base increases several fold without the need for coercive force."

"Better the victory with as little used resources than the one that requires great manpower, Neville," Harry taught his number one subordinate. "Patience is what will win this war, not impetuousness," he lectured before raising a hand to stop Neville's comeback. "It's getting late. We've got to move out in the morning. Go train the troops for a while before turning in."

Deprived of his chance to speak out on the topic, Neville nonetheless nodded and saluted his superior before walking away, leaving Xenophilius with Harry, both of them observing the younger man walk away.

"He's impatient," Xenophilius observed. "Was it really wise to bring him into our forces so quickly?"

Harry gave his advisor a self-assured smile. "He's too rare a talent to discard, much less keep imprisoned," he assured the older wizard. "If Dumbledore or even Scrimgeour had known how to use him effectively, our rise to power would be threatened by his very presence each step of the way."

Xenophilius shrugged. "Luna was pretty fond of him, but I can't see what you see in him," he admitted, a hint of sadness tinting his voice as he mentioned his daughter.

Harry chuckled. "He's just a stone right now, Xeno, but even the dullest stone can be made into a jewel," he said. "This is just training. When he comes into his own, I dare say even _I_ would have trouble fighting him."

"Dumbledore and the Aurors seem to think less of him," Xenophilius pointed out. "What makes you think he's that good?"

"He's got the spark," Harry said simply with a knowing smile, crossing his arms as he leant back onto a ruined pillar "That drive to become the very best. It's rare among his peers to begin with, but it's shining bright in him."

Harry then fell silent as he readied himself mentally for the next step. "Xeno, how volatile would you say London is right now?" he asked calmly.

Xenophilius looked at him for a moment before responding. "Very. What I said may make things look better than they are, but the truth is, it's pretty damn bad up there," he admitted. "The Death Eaters are inciting mages to harass the normal population, and it's got them on edge."

Harry nodded. "Then it's time," he concluded. "Xeno, call Sirius. Tell him I need him to invite out Richard II's ghost for me."

* * *

**London, United Kingdom, September 30****th****, 2010 (D-Day +612)…**

When Sirius had received the order from Harry thirteen days ago, he had felt one of the most curious emotional experiences in his life. On one hand, he'd been relieved that the order had finally come, and on the other, he'd been terrified of what was about to happen. Add to that disapproval for the whole thing, as well as excitement, and it made for a really strange emotional cocktail.

Whether he had reservations about the plan or not was irrelevant, however. Harry was in charge of this dance, and Sirius was just one more puppet put in his place for a specific reason: to carry out Harry's agenda.

It wasn't a poor paying job, either; his lifestyle was, in a word, luxurious. With government stability all but dead, prices had hit rock bottom, while at the same time the international propaganda and unauthorized media blackout they kept up in place kept the currency strong enough that Sirius' generous government salary was enough to make him a rich man, without even taking into account his family funds. It also helped that the Goblins helped by using their international contacts to maintain the illusion that the United Kingdom was still economically solvent.

Keeping the foreign companies from withdrawing their investments from the UK had been daunting, however. He wasn't proud to admit that more than once magic had been involved in keeping them in the country, even as society broke down further with every passing day. It wasn't ethical, but it was necessary. The country couldn't bear an economic crisis on top of concurrent political and social crises.

The result was that while it was business as usual with the economy, the cities of the UK were flooded with rioters who found a new reason to voice their discontent every day. That meant deployment of riot squads from the police force, but even these were getting taxed outside of their maximum capacity. That meant, in turn, that the military had been forced to start deploying troops for crowd control, which didn't go over well with the populace, just as Harry had predicted.

Thus, it was time to initiate the next phase of the plan, now that Spain was on the cusp of being won.

This next step had been carefully planned out. It had been long since established by Sirius, Harry, Xenophilius, and the rest of the advisory team that there was no way Harry would ever manage to grab power in his current circumstances. As a mage, even if a state-sanctioned one, he would be forever distrusted by his superiors and kept outside of any meaningful power structure. Even his command of the Military Mages was, in practice, just a step higher than being a grunt.

That meant it was necessary for the power structure keeping them submissive to undergo a crisis of its own—one that would afford an opportunity for Harry to seize power. Surprisingly enough, it hadn't been Harry who devised the perfect crisis for this, but rather William.

Using the Wars of the Roses as his backdrop, William explained that if the brass was given a situation where they could seize total control of the government, at least one of them would try, thus precipitating a constitutional crisis. In that event, it would be possible for a third party—one ostensibly just trying to save the nation—to enter the arena and seize power outright.

The problem was, the situation called for chaos. Controllable chaos, yes, but chaos nonetheless, and that meant trusting the populace not to make things worse than already predicted. That was asking a lot right there. The slightest miscalculation could enact a country-wide civil war, rather than a quick, systemic coup.

The target? The Imperial State Crown.

Perhaps the greatest symbol of the British state, its loss would throw the government into confusion and panic, and the people into a rage. If one could couple this loss with its sudden find by some ambitious general, who perhaps would have a retainer on hand whispering the need for a change in monarch, then how convenient it would be that a war hero, returning to Britain from service abroad, would stand up against such a traitor and take it upon himself to purge the government of the disloyal and corrupt?

The problem was that Sirius didn't like this approach one bit. He would do it, of course, but he felt conflicted. He might've gotten into government to help Harry, but treason was treason, and it offended his sensibilities. He also didn't appreciate the risk they were taking in carrying out this plot; any number of things could go wrong, and then Harry would need every loyal man on board to fight for him if they were to survive the aftermath.

Of course, he had to be thankful that their faction would ostensibly have no links to the theft itself. He had contacts for that—contacts Harry and the rest had all agreed needed to be used to avoid the mages getting involved, lest they make things worse.

The door to his office opened then, snapping him out of his reverie. He frowned as he watched his contact, in his mailman uniform, walked in.

"What's the word, Mister White?" asked the man gruffly. No sense in beating the bush around these types; crooks had no need for fancy words, just a job description.

"The order's come in," Sirius stated simply. "Do it. Pin in on looters; there's enough of them to go around for it to be credible," he ordered as he signed the delivery form the man had handed to him for appearances' sake. The package itself was probably just a gift from another MP or something equally banal. "Remember, no framing mages, no unnecessary violence. Get in, break some things, knock out the guards, get the target, and get out."

The man nodded curtly at the order. "No selling it either, eh?" he asked half-jokingly.

"No," Sirius answered firmly. "Keep it findable. I don't want it showing up in some random collector's trophy case when we find it," he warned. "And believe me, we _will_."

The mailman nodded again, a little disappointed. "Fine," he agreed grudgingly. "Where do you want it found?"

"Doesn't matter," Sirius said dismissively. "Put it on some homeless person, if need be. No political figures, however; I don't need a political scandal."

"Time frame?" asked the man calmly, not bothering to nod at Sirius' instructions. Both men knew the job would be carried out—Sirius was far too powerful to cross or blackmail.

"Get it done by the fifteenth," Sirius replied. "If it takes longer than that, I'm cutting your payment by a tenth for every late day."

The mailman narrowed his eyes. "That wasn't part of the deal, Mister White," the man growled.

Sirius was unmoved by the man's show of passive aggression. Out of the two of them, it was the mailman who was in most danger of losing everything, and they both knew it; this was just a show of unnecessary and pointless bravado. "I'm _making_ it part of the deal," he said tersely. "You are about to steal one of the Crown Jewels of the United Kingdom. I can't afford for that to take any longer than it should."

"What's stopping me from just telling the public of your part, then, Mister White?" threatened the mailman. Again, pointless threats; still, a dance that had to be danced every so often to reassert one's dominance.

"Your family," Sirius panned calmly. "Which reminds me, how _are_ your daughters—Felicia and Patricia, is it? I do hope they're feeling better after that flu outbreak at their school," he asked, no hint of danger or warning in his voice, just pure concern, as though he had a vested interest in their wellbeing. It was perhaps the most chilling thing the man had ever heard.

"Jus' fine," the mailman mumbled, obviously intimidated. "It'll be done, Mister White. Pleasure doing business with you," he added quickly before taking back the clipboard and hurrying out of the office.

Left alone, Sirius frowned as he leaned back into his amazingly comfortable chair and leaned his head on his fist. He didn't like the fact that he had to intimidate so many people into doing the job that he—or more accurately, Harry—needed done. Especially not when the intimidation called for threats to family. As a filially pious person, he expected Harry to understand not to mess with another's family—but, conversely, perhaps that was exactly what made Harry so aware of the potential fruits of using family as leverage.

How ironic!

* * *

**Sagunto, Spain, October 5****th****, 2010 (D-Day +617)…**

Today was a day of firsts, it seemed.

For the first time since the war had started, the British forces hadn't been automatically shunned since arriving at a city; on the contrary, they were welcomed into Sagunto as heroes, much to the suspicion and caution of the British troops, all of whom vividly remembered the guerrillas that plagued them throughout the war.

Regardless of the British forces' cool attitude towards the locals, however, they were welcomed happily into the town, even helped as the soldiers of the Second Army made camp on the outskirts. For the first time since the war had started, the British forces watched as locals raised a pre-fascist Spanish royalist flag instead of the fascist yoke and arrows.

It was just as well, really, as the British, once again on the move, needed a better supply route than trucking cross-country all the way from Santander, and Sagunto had a port to its name.

A port that now the Spanish wanted back, having realized how important it was to the British war effort.

"_Five_ _corps_ are coming this way?" asked one of the officers present at the meeting incredulously.

General Stevens, now in charge of the Second Army after the death of his predecessor, nodded gravely. "Our scouts report that the enemy's been advancing steadily from Valencia to our south and Castellón de la Plana to our north," he confirmed for his staff. "Unfortunately, our own forces are beneath their combat strength due to garrison duties along the supply route to Santander, which is why I've gathered you here. We need ideas to counter this surge, and we need them quickly."

"How long do we have before the enemy arrive?" asked another officer.

"Twenty hours before they're in position," reported Lieutenant General Speirs, one of the few men who'd seen combat since the initial relief action at Gibraltar and kept jumping the ranks as a result. "Albert Company from my 34th Regiment reports they're deliberately taking their time in getting here to make sure that all enemy units arrive simultaneously."

"They want to trap us here," realized another officer. "Have four corps cut off our northern and southern routes, and the last cut off our supply route," he reasoned. "Sir, we'd be under siege in a hardly defensible location."

"Our best bet's fortifying the castle hill, sir," observed another Lieutenant General. "We can bog them down in street warfare for a while and retreat up the hill once the city becomes untenable. Should buy enough time for reinforcements to arrive and relieve the situation."

"Fifth Army Headquarters in Madrid is the closest, but even if we sent a messenger there, they'd never get a force ready before a week, at least," Harry, who'd been quietly observing the proceedings so far, piped up. "Not to mention the Spanish will have that chokehold they're preparing for us defended tightly, so it'd probably take them weeks to punch through. Add to that the fact that neither the First, Third, or Fourth Armies can help, and we're relying a bloody lot on the garrison Army," he pointed out.

"We'll have to hope for the best, I'm afraid," Stevens said gravely. "I'll have a messenger sent out to Madrid right away," he nodded to a nearby aide, who saluted back and ran off to carry out the order. "Meanwhile, we need to think how best to stave off the enemy for two weeks, at minimum."

"Can our supplies even last that long?" asked Speirs sceptically. "We'll have to start scouring the city supplies if not."

"We'll need an inventory done," Harry agreed. "We need to find out just how much ammunition we've hauled here—see how long it lasts," he added. "My mages can take care of bombing wards—should let us sleep with _some_ peace of mind."

Stevens nodded, pleased. "Good, that ought to keep their artillery and air support at bay," he agreed. "What else can we do?"

"Sagunto is surrounded by elevated terrain, we'll need to scout it out for potential ambush spots so that our reinforcements aren't ambushed on their way here," opined Major General Sullivan. "Maybe even place a few of our own men there to give the Spanish hell."

"That's a suicide mission," Speirs protested. "If anything went wrong, there'd be no way for them to return to Sagunto. They'd have to trudge all the way back to Madrid through insecure, potentially hostile ground."

"There's also the problem of the castle's capacity," Harry pointed out. "We've got…what? Sixty thousand troops here?" he asked for verification.

"Just about," Stevens confirmed. The rest were either dead, wounded and at the military hospital in Santander, or on guard duty wherever the Fifth couldn't spare any men. "What's your point, White?"

"The castle can probably take, what? Ten thousand, if we cram them together?" Harry pointed out. "That leaves fifty thousand troops without permanent defensive positions, not to mention the civilian population, which counts at about sixty thousand as well."

"Either you've got an idea, White, or you're about to try to convince us to surrender," growled Sullivan.

Harry smiled emotionlessly at his counterpart. He liked Stevens, Speirs, and most of the rest of Stevens' staff, but not Sullivan—he seemed to hate the idea of Military Mages on a fundamental level. "My mages can expand the castle's capacity, but only within enclosed spaces, such as rooms, basements, and the like," he offered. "However, even then we'll be running out of space, so we're going to need a substantial detachment digging or building new rooms for my mages to be able to accommodate all of our capacity needs."

"Aren't we stretching the mages a little thin as it is?" asked Speirs, crossing his arms. "Bombing wards, covering for ambush detachments, fortifications within the city…and now magical expansion? Do you even have enough men for all that?"

Harry gave a confident smile at Stevens. "Believe me, sir, my men are up to it; they've learned a lot since Zaragoza," he assured his superior. Zaragoza hadn't been the mages' finest hour, but it _had_ showcased their considerable battlefield abilities.

"I certainly hope so, White," Stevens said, still sombre. "We're going to be relying on them a lot this time around," he added before nodding to himself. "Very well; I think we've thought this through as much as we can. We have six divisions we can use to defend the city," he summarized as he now pointed to the map on the table in their midst. He tapped six positions on the map of the city. "We deploy defensive positions here, here, here, here, here, and here. Speirs, you command the northern front. Sullivan, if Michaels is back on his feet, he's to take the southern front; if not, you're in charge," he ordered. "I also want both of you to carry out an inventory of our available supplies within your divisions

Both addressed men saluted Stevens. "Yes, sir!" they chorused.

Stevens then looked at Harry. "White, take your mages and fortify our location. I want the castle prepped to accommodate all of our troop capacity, plus civilians as well," he continued. "Also, have one of your men accompany the scouting detail to the hills around our position, just in case."

Harry nodded. "Yes, sir!" he acknowledged.

"I'll be taking care of the centre of our defensive perimeter personally," Stevens informed them. "Let's get to it, then, gentlemen."

So dismissed, the General's staff began to filter out of the room inside the mayoral offices of the town, where they had set up headquarters. That would have to move, too—probably up to the relative safety of the castle.

Outside of the building, Harry was just readjusting his peaked cap, complete with Military Mage insignia on the front, when he noticed Xenophilius waiting for him. Not bothering to let the man know he had been noticed, Harry walked down the stairs and began to walk past him when Xenophilius came to his side automatically, quickly falling into step to his rear left.

"We're on warding duty," Harry told his subordinate simply. "Take…Stevenson, Abbott, Williams, York, Howe, and Bernstein and set up anti-bombing wards," he ordered as they both stopped near a crossroads. Harry pulled out a cigarette then and lit up, enjoying the brief feeling the nicotine surge in his system before continuing. "Also, tell Neville to get his kit together—he's going to be leading a patrol to the nearby hills."

Xenophilius nodded. "Anything else?" he asked the younger man, committing every order to memory.

Harry nodded, thankful for the reminder. "Pick out our twenty of our best technical mages and get them to move to the castle up the hill," Harry said. "They're going to need to expand several of the castle's enclosed rooms. General Stevens should have an overseer there that'll explain more in detail."

"I'll see to it that everything's carried out," Xeno assured him. "What'll you be doing?"

Harry smiled back at him. "I'll be around."

Knowing he'd get no other answer from his superior, Xeno merely stared at him for a brief moment before nodding and silently Disapparating, off to carry out his orders. Left alone, Harry finished his cigarette before flicking it onto the ground and looking up to the sky. Bright blue—what a rarity at this time of the year.

At the sound of footsteps approaching, Harry tucked his hands in his pockets and smiled to himself. "Done already with your work, Speirs?" he asked wryly. "Your efficiency is something to admire."

"Cut the crap, White…or should I call you Potter?" asked Speirs, his frown deepening as he approach his colleague. They'd known each other since Gibraltar, so that counted for something.

"Call me White—keeps things simple," Harry suggested.

Speirs nodded noncommittally. "Fine, White," he agreed. He paused then for a moment before walking up to Harry's side and staring out down the street—empty, but for a few soldiers here and there on patrol. A city under siege could truly resemble a ghost town when so close to the battle lines.

"Let's be frank," Speirs said then suddenly. "Stevens is good man, but he's too timid. He listens to advice, but has no ideas of his own, and he distrusts the mages," he said calmly. "If I fell in battle, Sullivan would be in charge."

"Sullivan is too reckless, and under his command the Second Army would be destroyed," Harry concurred just as calmly, a satisfied smile on his face. He'd been wanting Speirs on his side for a while now, but the man's typical aloofness and neutrality in the whole mage debate had made him practically unapproachable.

"You Military Mages have proven to be loyal to the state," Speirs added next. "Distrusting you any further is counterproductive towards the state's efforts at stability."

Both men turned towards each other then, an unspoken agreement between the two being formed. "What are you thinking, Speirs?" Harry asked then, already knowing what his colleague was hinting at.

"Stevens and Sullivan are liabilities to the war effort," Speirs said bluntly, not one to beat around the bush any further than was necessary. "You're a good strategist and a capable commander. The Liverpudlians in the army follow you without question, and I know you've got support back home and in the brass," he informed the younger man. "During the battle, should anything happen to Sullivan and Stevens, I will follow your orders without question, too."

It was a surprising statement from a man who technically outranked him, but Harry couldn't have been gladder for it. Speirs commanded enormous respect amongst the rank and file for having been a battlefield commander throughout the entire war, even if his rank excused him from actual field appearances. With Speirs on his side now, he had just gained twenty thousand soldiers. "I'll keep that in mind," he replied with a conspiring smile.

Speirs stared at him for a long time then, seemingly trying to force himself to read Harry's unspoken intentions. He probably had a good idea of where Harry's ambitions would lead, but for some reason, he seemed resigned to accept that as inescapable fact, and chose to side with him. After a moment of silent staring, Speirs nodded at him once more and left, leaving Harry alone once again.

Harry smiled at the blue sky above. A good portent indeed.

Harry tugged on his gloves then, making sure they were tightly fastened to his hands. Now, to cement his place in history.

* * *

**Sagunto, Spain, October 6****th****, 2010 (D-Day +618)…**

In a siege, the first indication you get that you're under attack typically comes in the form of something exploding.

So it was that, in the early morning of October 6th, the first of the British forces' defensive positions were jolted into action as an artillery shell exploded against the wards that Harry's mages had put up.

The British troops were, naturally, of high morale and spirit, given their astounding successes in the war against Spain, and yet even then they were surprised at the mass of Spanish troops forming up just outside of bullet range. Certainly, they had been briefed that the enemy forces outnumbered their own considerably, but even with that warning, the British soldiers couldn't help but be shaken by the vast array of enemies readying to storm their comparably pitiful defensive positions.

The problem with wards, to compound the issue, was that as they kept things out of their perimeter, so too did they keep these same things inside, meaning that a bombing ward would just as easily render their own artillery pieces ineffective, and that the Military Mages were forced to withdraw until such a time when the enemy troops penetrated the ward's defensive perimeters.

Which served Harry just fine.

Watching the action a from a few blocks away via binoculars, he calmly observed as the improvised defence works blocking the streets became a hive of activity as the British defenders rushed to get their final preparations in order. He watched as a two-man HMG team readied their weapon, the loader handling the ammunition belt like gold, while the gunner stared down his iron sights, his left hand briefly leaving the gun grip to quickly cross himself, no doubt asking for divine protection in this hour of need.

He watched as, further down the road, mortar teams readied their tubes, with the radiomen squatting by, no doubt waiting for coordinates to relay to their charges.

Fifteen. Fifteen different defence checkpoints had been set up between the city centre and the enemy coming at his flank. To reach Harry, however, the enemy needed only to cross three. To get to the castle hill, thirty. To the castle proper—fifty.

Watching through his binoculars, Harry had no doubt that the large enemy host would reach the very walls of the castle. Even with his mages fighting, the enemy had effectively trapped them in Sagunto, victims of their commanding general's lack of foresight.

Still, Harry had a plan. And that plan would bring immeasurable rewards—if it succeeded.

"Enemy troops converging just outside of firing range, sir," the radio operator informed him, relaying the front lines' reports, no doubt. "Captain Hollenbeck reports that enemy vanguard consists of about five thousand troops."

Harry nodded. "Stick to the plan—hold position until deemed untenable," he ordered the radioman to relay. "On my signal, have the mortar teams fire their ordinance at the predetermined targets."

Harry didn't even hear the radioman acknowledge his order, instead refocusing his binoculars to the hill on the other side of the fields bordering Sagunto. Neville and his team were still there, and judging by the utter lack of interest the enemy army was showing towards those hills, they hadn't yet been found—or if they had, then they weren't being considered much of a threat.

Or rather, that was the superficial reasoning one could draw. Instead, Harry expected that the Spanish commander knew full well just _who_ it was that occupied Sagunto. Moreover, Harry could guess who it was that led the Spanish forces—General Alejandro Ruiz-Perez, the man who'd been the bane of the British Second Army during the entirety of the war.

An honourable, if devious and intelligent man, he'd been at the forefront of every difficult battle the British had to fight every step of the war. When the invasion had first started, he'd been in charge of the North-Eastern Army of Spain, hindering the Second Army's otherwise inexorable march. When he was finally transferred away towards the west to counter the First and Third Armies, the Second had finally been able to subjugate the Spanish North-East.

It seemed ridiculous—even fictional that a single man could pose so much trouble, but that was the truth. Amongst the British, General Ruiz-Perez was nicknamed "The Wall" for his amazing defensive leadership skill. If he wasn't such a big headache for him, Harry would've loved to have such a man on his staff. As it was, Harry had no doubt the man would only ever surrender if he died.

A pity.

The radio crackled again then, this time buzzing alive with the sound of stressed soldiers.

"_CONTACT FIRST POSITION!_" a soldier could be heard screaming through the radio. So, the enemy had finally crossed through the wards. They were more determined than he'd expected—this was certainly not what he'd come to expect from the Spanish commander. "_We're being suppressed! Enemy is moving up without adequate resistance!_"

He raised his binoculars again and aimed them towards the first position of his flank. As the radioman had yelled through the apparatus, Harry could see the street asphalt burst here and there where the bullets hit, victims of bad aiming. More importantly, however, were the British soldiers practically huddled against the barricade, only the HMG teams firing their guns, relatively safe behind the makeshift steel bullet screens they'd built around their gun emplacements.

"First position is in danger of being overrun," one of Harry's aides, a remarkable non-mage by the name of Albert Clarke, noted as he, too, watched the situation develop via his own binoculars. "Shall we advise General Stevens to have the mortars fire, sir?"

Harry stayed silent, still watching the advancing Spanish troops move in on the first barricade. They were being careful, advancing only along the sides of the street and using the outlying buildings as cover. A mortar strike would only do minimal damage at this point. He needed them towards the centre of the road before such a strike could be called in.

He toyed with the idea of having the mortars fire rounds on the buildings the Spanish forces were using as cover, but dismissed it almost as quickly. Forcing them into the centre via such a tactic would probably fall within the Spanish commander's expectations.

Harry had another idea then. Lowering the binoculars, he turned his head towards his aide. "Call up Lovegood. Tell him to have two Blasting Mages report here immediately."

"Yes, sir!" the radioman acknowledged before changing frequencies. "Shield-One, Shield-One, this is Sword-Three; Hellfire requests Triad to send over two—say again, _two_ Bravo-Mikes!"

"Sir, won't General Stevens object?" asked Clarke. "The Mages are supposed to be stationed at the castle," he reminded his superior.

"General Stevens is being influenced by dubious judgment from short-sighted officers, Major," he informed his subordinate. "General Speirs will support my action, in any case."

Silence permeated the forward command post for a few seconds before the radio crackled back to life. "Sword-Three, Shield-One. Roger; Triad is sending over requested Bravo-Mikes. Out."

Almost immediately thereafter, two soft pops alerted the people inside the forward base to the arrival of two mages. Without turning to meet them, Harry knew the two had saluted him and smiled to himself. "Report," he said calmly.

"Sir! Codenames Earthshaker and Meteor, reporting for duty!" a rough sounding male voice spoke up behind him. Impressive codenames, to be sure—typically a good sign. Military Mage codenames were given on the basis of their magical strength, hence Harry's own ominous nickname. To have Meteor and Earthshaker as one's codenames indicated quite a bit of power.

"The first forward position is on the verge of being overrun," Harry informed the two mages who stood stonily at attention, their impeccable blue-and-white trimmed uniforms the very picture of perfection. "The enemy is making it worse by being clever about their approach, minimizing their own casualties at our expense."

He raised a hand to point towards two spots along the sides of the road towards the forward position. "I need you two to force the enemy troops to move along the centre—our designated killing ground. Do it quickly, before General Stevens realizes we've deployed mages to the battlefield," he ordered. He watched passively as both mages thumped their chests in salute before disappearing as softly as they'd appeared.

It didn't take long after that before the first results of his ploy began to emerge. Loud explosions shook the area around the first defensive position as massive explosions on both sides of the road startled the attackers towards the centre of the road, where the British HMG positions finally had a clear shot at them, cutting the advancing wave of troops to ribbons.

"Looks like it worked, sir," Clarke noted phlegmatically, tacitly admitting he'd been perhaps wrong in questioning his superior's tactical decision.

Harry smiled. "Indeed, Major," he said modestly before snapping his fingers towards the radioman. "Get me Meteor and Earthshaker on the radio, Corporal," he ordered.

"Sir!" came the acknowledging grunt before Harry felt a metallic object being placed in his outstretched hand. Pulling it up to his mouth, his binoculars held up with one hand, Harry turned his attention to his two mages on the field.

"Meteor, Earthshaker, this is Sword-Three; good job on completing your mission," he praised them—it never hurt to let the troops know you cherished their accomplishments. "I need a repeat performance along the eastern and western approaches of this sector. Looks like the Dons are looking to avoid whatever artillery we seem to have aimed at your location."

He heard a few chuckles over the radio, glad to see that the anti-magic shielding was holding for the radios—well, actually, it was just EMP shielding, but it seemed to be holding for the most part. Mind you, a concentrated burst of magic would burn the shielded equipment without much trouble. Still, it was nice to see that the radios would survive Apparation, at least.

"Eartshaker copies," the reply eventually came. "Meteor copies," the female, Irish lilt followed.

In short order, Harry watched as four more massive detonations occurred at the western and eastern flanks of Stevens' defensive locations, and the subsequent, nightmarish mix of gunfire and screaming informed Harry that the plan had worked as Spanish troops funnelled towards the centre of the approaches, right into the iron sights of the British defenders.

"Enemy troops have moved into optimum barrage position," Clarke reported dutifully. "Shall we advise General Stevens?" he asked.

Harry was silent for a few moments. "Corporal, sitrep on the Spanish advance in the other sectors," he ordered, apparently ignoring his subordinate's question.

"Yes, sir," the man replied before chattering away at the radio. "Sword-One, Sword-One; this is Sword-Three, please advise on hostile advance in your sector, over."

"_Sword-Three, we are currently holding all positions,_" came the disembodied, mechanical response. "_Casualties light_, over."

The radioman glanced at Harry for a second before nodding to himself. "Copy that, Sword-One. Sword-Two?" he followed up.

"_Sword-Three, we are holding position, but are coming under heavy attack!_" came the expected report from Sword-Two. "_Casualties are mounting, and Major General Sullivan has been forced to take to the front to calm morale!_"

The radioman again glanced at Harry before giving his response. "Copy that, Sword-Two; Sword-Three—out."

Harry crossed his arms over his chest then, his head tilted up thoughtfully as he thought out the situation. That Sullivan was under heavy pressure was no surprise—the man, while a good commander, was fitter for attacking positions than defending them, due to his impetuous nature. He wouldn't accept the help of Harry's mages, either, probably suspecting them of being loyal only to Harry, and not the state—something which, truth be told, he wasn't wrong about. Still, it meant a flank would possibly fold under the superior numbers of the Spanish ahead of schedule, and he couldn't allow that.

The time had come, then. If Stevens and Sullivan were taken out of action, Harry could swiftly take over early on, assuring that the morale drop wouldn't come at a critical juncture later on.

"Major Clarke," he said suddenly. "Please inform Lovegood that we are initiating Contingency Omega," he ordered. As the people around him sucked in air in shocked understanding, Harry felt reassured that the secret plan hadn't been leaked. No one outside the small circle of officers and auxiliaries he'd organized would know about the plan, and all of them were either here with him or up with Xenophilius, whose loyalty to him was beyond question.

Still, it was a testament to his men's stalwart loyalty to him that none of them hesitated in carrying out their assigned task, even as they knew what the end result would be. Harry felt a surge of smug pride at realizing that, pleased that his efforts at cultivating his men's loyalty had been successful both among the mages and non-mages.

"Triad reports that Agents One and Two are moving into position now, sir," the radioman informed him stoically, obviously not pleased with the plan, but still going ahead with orders.

He wasn't the only one, Harry could see. Clarke was visibly holding himself back from saying something, but rather than rebuke him for it, Harry decided to let him vent out his thoughts—hidden thoughts tended to fester and foment doubt.

"Speak your mind, Major," Harry ordered his subordinate, who hesitated for a moment before nodding.

"Sir, couldn't we just wound the General and arrest Major General Sullivan?" he asked. "Why kill them?"

"Woundings and arrests lead to scrutiny, Major," Harry informed his subordinate. "That means everyone in this room and in on the plan will be investigated, thereby bringing with it the danger that we will be found out. This must be done for the greater good," he said firmly.

"_Shadow-One in position_," a female voice sounded through the radio then. Good—his agent nearest to Stevens was in place. That assassin he'd had to pick personally—if he'd picked at random, there was always a chance that the shooter would have second thoughts. He needed someone absolutely devoted to him to pull that trigger to avoid any such complications. Sullivan, for his part, had numerous enemies within the Regiment, so finding his assassin hadn't been all that hard. "_Target acquired. Need confirmation._"

"_Shadow-Two in position_," he heard a male voice through the radio then. "_I have a shot._"

"All assets in place, sir," the radioman reported. "They're just waiting for your order."

Harry nodded. This was it, the moment when he'd finally come into his own as a military power within the British system. "Do it," he ordered, his voice as unfaltering as his resolve.

The radioman, for his part, was more reticent in so casually relaying the assassination order. "…All agents, plan is a go," he said eventually into his mouthpiece. "Say again, plan is a go. Take the shots."

"_Copy_." "_Roger._"

The room waited for a moment while the radios went dead. Another radio-op had his frequency set to the general British channel, thereby hoping to intercept any alarming notices. They didn't have to wait long.

"_Jesus Christ!_" the room heard someone shout through the British channel. "_Those bastards got Sullivan! I say again, Major General Sullivan is down!_"

"_Sword-Two, this is General Speirs, can you confirm that General Sullivan is KIA?_"

"_Sword-One, we have a confirmed KIA notice on General Sullivan!_"

"_Christ,_" Harry heard Speirs swear. "_Sword-Three, this is General Speirs; I need General Stevens on the line—_"

"_MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY,_" another voice interrupted Speirs mid-request. Throughout the entire brouhaha, the room was utterly silent as they listened to the situation spiral out of control. It wasn't time just yet for Harry to step in, but it was almost at hand. "_General Stevens is down! I say again, Stevens is down! The forward positions are folding!_"

"_This is Shadow group—targets eliminated; returning to base,_" they heard the two agents report mid-crisis via the private channel one of the radios were tuned to.

"_All forces, stand your ground!_" Speirs could be heard berating the panicked operators, obviously quick on the uptake despite the frustrated edge to his voice. "_Keep combat discipline, damnit all! We are not beaten, and we will not retreat unless according to plan! I say again: hold your ground!_"

The radio kept going on with excited chatter, but what drew Harry's attention was the sudden upward snap of a third radio-op's head. The man's eyes narrowed for a moment before nodding seriously to himself. "Yes, sir," he spoke to whomever was on the other side of the call. The man turned to face Harry. "Sir, General Speirs on the line—he wants a word," he reported dutifully.

Harry tuned in his handheld radio to the appropriate frequency and pushed the talk button. "White here," he said laconically.

"_It's done, then?_" asked Speirs.

Harry smiled to himself. So Speirs really was on board. Here he was worried he'd have to dispatch another Shadow agent to take care of him. "It's done," he confirmed.

There was a pause in the transmission then before Speirs spoke again. "_Very well. Your orders?_"

Harry's smile turned to a triumphant smirk. He had this in the bag. Now his rise to power would be unstoppable. "Follow the plan," he ordered. "Lure the enemy into the city. Triad has our welcoming mat ready to be rolled out."

There was radio silence for a moment again before Speirs spoke up again. "_Very well. It will be done. Speirs out._"

Harry lowered the radio with a satisfied smile. Everything was going according to plan so far, with a few minor hiccups here and there. He looked at his staff and tossed the handheld radio to one of the radio-ops, who caught it handily.

"Gentlemen, time to pack up. Our work is done here," he informed everyone. "Set up at the base camp."

When the staff evacuated the room, Harry was the last to go, smiling to himself the whole way out, pleased at how well everything had gone. Once out of the building they'd requisitioned, with a little resistance from the former tenants of the apartment in question—one of whom's dead body Harry had to be careful not to trip over—he carefully arranged his expression to show grim-faced seriousness as befitting a military commander who'd just heard that two superior officers had been killed in action.

Two pops nearby told him his deployed mages had returned then.

"The building is secure," Harry told them. "Destroy it."

Meteor and Earthshaker both bowed to him as he passed by them. "As you wish, sir," they rendered dutiful obedience before walking towards the next target of their destructive magic.

As Harry walked away, he closed his eyes as he savoured the sound of the building collapsing behind him.

* * *

**Sagunto, Spain, October 10****th****, 2010 (D-Day +622)…**

The siege, for all intents and purposes, had gone badly for the British defenders. The Spanish numbers had ensured that they would push the British out of their trenches and further into the town, with each defensive position eventually overrun as the anti-artillery wards began to fail due to continuous barrage from the enemy. It was just a matter of time, then, before the British were in a full rout to the castle, where the mages' magical touches had ensured that they would all fit and that the walls would stand up to the abuse they were about to be inflicted on. Nonetheless, the cost had been high; hundreds, if not thousands of British soldiers lay dead in the streets of Sagunto.

The castle hill itself was now completely surrounded by the enemy, and while the defenders could breath easy knowing that there was only one real, feasible way to mount an attack on their defences, it didn't mean that they could afford to be complacent. It was made worse with the fact that eventually, the artillery ward surrounding the city had gone down, leaving the hill briefly exposed before another ward, this time protecting only the castle hill, had been slammed into being after the mages were immediately deployed to contain the situation. Even so, the mages responsible for the wards were being forced to continuously channel magic into the ward, given the constant barrage of artillery and mortar fire that hammered it. Unfortunately, not all of them could take the stress, and at least ten mages died as they poured everything they had into the wards.

Even worse was the fact that, cunningly, the Spanish commander had waited to take the battle to the castle long enough for the civilians to evacuate into the castle as well, leaving the defenders' supplies in a precarious position, dwindling down quickly as the soldiers were forced to share their rations with the refugees they were protecting.

In the midst of all this chaos, with the Spanish now battering at the castle walls relentlessly, the British defenders nonetheless managed to keep their discipline—perhaps teetering on the edge overall, but still holding for now. This was more a mark of their desperation, however, than their belief of victory. They were cut off and reinforcements before they were eventually overrun seemed unlikely, causing each British soldier to fight like a desperate, cornered animal. The results were telling: for each British soldier that died, nearly ten Spaniards lay dead on the ground.

"INCOMING!"

Xenophilius ran along the ancient castle's parapets, ducking his head as bullets flew overhead, each of them threatening to end his life in an instant if he wasn't careful. No amount of magic could fix a hole in the head, after all, and any he put up now would fall almost immediately, considering the amount of firepower being levelled at the castle. He heard a few screams coming from the courtyard then, preceded by a loud explosion that signalled a mortar hit. The wards were beginning to fail, then. That was bad news.

He slid to a stop then, briefly glancing over the bullet-riddled parapets to see the Spanish insisting on their assault on the castle. While they could've waited for the defenders to starve, Xenophilius guessed the commander wanted to be sure that the castle—and more importantly, the mages within—were all dead before the British could send reinforcements to relieve the siege. Nevermind that the casualty rate was horrific.

He brought up his wand and took careful aim at a knot of Spaniards seemingly protecting something with their bodies as they advanced. Another siege ladder, no doubt. They'd already tried setting a few up along the walls, and succeeded in a couple of attempts, but the defenders had always managed to destroy them in time, thus preventing the castle from getting overrun.

"_Confringo!_" he hissed, watching with satisfaction as the ground beneath the knot of enemy soldiers exploded violently, effectively decimating the ladder they had indeed been carrying towards his section of the wall. He heard quite a few soldiers near him give triumphant whoops as they watched the covert attempt foiled and smiled. That ought to put a dent on the attack, even if for just a few minutes.

Satisfied he'd contributed in some small part to this particular wall section's defence, Xenophilius scrambled back up to his feet and continued his run down the wall, still looking for Harry. While he'd no doubt prevented a potential gap in their defences from forming, Xenophilius had no doubts that the Spanish wouldn't let up, and the problem with that was that the defenders were figuratively almost at the end of their rope.

That the wall section had been defended from that particular assault did not mean that Xenophilius didn't have to keep his head ducked as he scrambled along the parapets, the Spaniards' attempts at breaching the castle becoming more determined and ingenious as time passed. At one point, they began stacking stones at the bottom of a wall, knowing that it short of exposing oneself, it would be hard to dismantle the makeshift siege ladder. That particular attempt was only foiled when the British lobbed a multitude of timed explosives over the walls towards the foot of the pile of rocks and blasted it away, causing some damage to their own walls in the process.

Xenophilius craned his head around, looking for Harry, when he caught sight of a couple of sections of British soldiers buckling under the pressure of assaulting Spanish besiegers, one of the ladders apparently having managed to get set up. Already, numerous British bodies littered the parapet floors, their Kevlar vests finally having run their course in defending their wearers from death.

He had to think things through only a moment before making his decision. While he did need to inform Harry of the desperation of their situation and convince him to initiate the second part of their plan, leaving a potential gap to open up in their defences was a worse choice. Wand out, he dashed towards the defenders, who were only holding on thanks to the encouragement of their comrades-in-arms along the sides of the breach who were in turn firing on the advancing Spanish troops.

Picking up speed, the elder mage jumped onto a battlement, onto another, and then jumped over the knot of embattled British soldiers near the ladder, his wand pointed at the Spanish climbing the ladder.

"Out," he ordered them mid-air, jabbing his wand at them, just before another blasting curse shot out of his wand. The spell impacted the middle of the ladder just as he landed on one of the battlements, stepping onto another, and then jumping back behind their protection, just as the astonished Spaniards at the foot of the ladder opened fire on him again. The ladder, naturally, exploded with over twenty Spaniards still on it, flinging them in every direction.

The couple who actually managed to hang onto the wall were quickly dispatched by a lone British soldier, who gleefully shot the men who'd come so near to killing him, only to suddenly fall backwards as one of the advancing Spanish party shot him immediately thereafter, taking full advantage of the man's sudden appearance from cover.

Xenophilius grimaced, but put aside his feelings at the man's death. The man had taken an unnecessary risk and paid for it. Instead, he turned to the other defenders and nodded at them.

"You all good?" he asked them over the din of gunfire and explosions. At the collective nods and thanks, he smiled and gave them an encouraging thumbs-up. "Make them bleed for every inch they try to take!"

The sections of British defenders gave a small cheer as they watched Xenophilius dash away again, a little more inspired in their defence than they'd been when they were on the verge of being overrun. Xenophilius, for his part, kept looking for Harry on the parapets, but couldn't manage to find him. Giving up on finding him on the walls, he descended the stairs, taking great care to avoid the shimmers of disillusioning spells, and went into the castle proper, seeking out the war room that Speirs and Harry had commandeered.

Indeed, he found both men hunched over a map of the castle and its immediate surroundings, while another, larger map hung from a wall, denoting the city and its surroundings. Both maps had an incredible amount of markings written on them, while the radio operators and computer technicians were working feverishly to stay on top of the battle information and transmissions.

Speirs was talking when Xenophilius entered the room, pointed towards the northern approach of the city.

"…doesn't make sense," he was telling Harry. "Why mobilize so much of the Spanish capital's defensive force to take out a fragment of our forces, especially with the First and Third Armies moving in on Barcelona?" he pointed out. "The smart thing would've been to entrench them around Barcelona and have the First and Third pay for every square inch of ground."

Harry leaned onto the table, his eyes scanning the maps. He had an idea as to why this siege had come about—which had admittedly bugged him since he'd heard of their advance from Barcelona. He only then noticed Xenophilius standing at the door frame, looking winded. "Xeno," he greeted noncommittally.

Xenophilius took in a deep breath to steady his heartbeats and saluted both men. "Defences are starting to buckle," he reported. "We've managed to push back the Spanish, but we're at the end of our rope here," he added. "We _need_ to launch step two of the plan; _please_ give the order!"

Harry and Speirs exchanged looks before Harry shook his head. "Not yet," he replied firmly. "We're still waiting on a signal."

Xenophilius goggled at the two men. "Signal? What signal?" he asked, confused and not a little outraged. He'd been fighting for the past four days alongside the common soldiers and he was starting to feel the brunt of exhaustion, both physical and mental.

Harry smiled, even as the roof shook from an impact blast and rained down dust and grit. "Our ace in the hole."

* * *

**Outskirts of Sagunto, Spain, October 10****th****, 2010 (D-Day +622)...**

"Shhhh," Neville hissed to his team as they hid behind foliage, the Spanish patrol soon passing near them. He waited until the enemy had passed by before waving for his two assigned squads to move up towards his position.

Putting up a concealment charm—which wouldn't really hold up to a thorough inspection, but would probably be enough to keep any further patrols out of their way—Neville motioned for one of the soldiers to unfurl the map she'd kept in her pack.

"It's official," he summed up grimly. "Sagunto is completely surrounded."

"Sir, what about the enemy convoy we spotted coming from the north?" asked one of the NCOs. "Command has to hear about it."

Neville glanced at the radio operator, who shook his head. "Comm lines are still down, sir. Anything trying to send a signal in or out of Sagunto just gets feedback," he reported.

Neville grimaced at their bad fortune. The way things were, there was absolutely no way to get back within Sagunto to report back to Harry and his superiors. The stranglehold the Spanish had enacted around the city essentially made any attempts to sneak in impossible, and there was no way they could strike at some weak point in the Spanish formation—it was simply too good, and Neville didn't have a fraction of the men he needed to pull off such a gambit.

"Sir, Sagunto's going to fall if something miraculous doesn't happen soon," one of the sergeants pointed out unnecessarily. "And it doesn't look like Madrid is going to be able to send reinforcements in time."

That was another complication. After the ring around Sagunto had been formed, the Spanish had detached a significant amount of troops to blockade the roads from Madrid, meaning that any hopes of getting reinforcements to the besieged forces in Sagunto quickly had been dashed. Even if they did manage to defeat the blockading forces, the battle would probably take too long, and the defenders would probably have been defeated by then.

"A surgical strike at the Spanish general could do the trick," one of the sergeants suggested, although his tone of voice suggested in turn that he wasn't quite convinced of the plan's feasibility.

"Too many troops between us and him," Neville dismissed immediately.

"Should we go back to Madrid then?" asked a Corporal. "I mean, we can't get in, they can't get out, the supply routes are all cut off, and we're too undermanned to hurt the bastards. What's left?"

Neville gazed at the map on the ground, observing every written annotation and symbol on it, and slowly began to form an idea—a crazy, absolutely bonkers idea, but an idea nonetheless.

"The convoy," he said, first to himself, then to the group of NCOs by him. "We strike at the convoy," he repeated himself. As he expected, sceptical looks welcomed his idea.

"Look, we've got two choices at this point. Do what Corporal Brenner says and go back to Madrid and let the Second Army bite the dust, or we hit the Spanish hard and hope to high heaven that it rattles them enough to break their formation," he pointed out, a little heat entering his voice. "I don't know about any of you, but I'm damn tired of watching them batter away at our friends in Sagunto, and I'm not one to sit around doing nothing. Even if that convoy's full of hay, it'll still get their attention, and maybe give our lads a fighting chance—especially if the Spanish think that it's the work of reinforcements."

The NCOs looked amongst themselves as Neville spoke, doubt still clouding their faces. The truth was, none of them enjoyed watching the Spanish crawl ever deeper into the city, and they'd all felt helpless when they realized that their comrades had been forced into the castle at the top of the hill, where they were no doubt making a last stand. The problem was, the convoy they'd observed, albeit briefly, was both large in number and undoubtedly armed. Against their three sections, 24 men in all, what hope did they have of success?

Yet, as Neville had pointed out, that was the only choice apart from retreat, and all of those who'd accompanied the Military Mage on the scouting mission were members of the legendary Francis White's 75h Regiment, the Liverpudlians. All of them knew and had seen Francis White, known as Harry Potter, defend the lives of their fellow soldiers on the battlefield. To leave him to die in Sagunto, where he was fighting to protect their comrades, then, felt like the worst kind of betrayal one could perform.

Still, this wasn't the type of mission you could just assume everyone would volunteer for. Or even would agree to go on.

"Volunteers, then," summed up the senior sergeant, a little resignedly.

Everyone in the circle nodded their heads and crept back towards the small resting grove where the soldiers had been left to take a breather. As they were fairly hidden away from the Spanish patrol routes, they didn't have to worry about standing or speaking normally.

The senior sergeant, not wanting to risk the volunteer numbers to be affected by dislike or hero-worship over mages, stepped up to his men and fixed them all with a hard stare.

"Bad news all around," he told them, noting grimly that this had their complete attention. "Sagunto's completely cut off, meaning there's no way for us to get in there to help out, nor is there a way for them to fight their way out," he informed them bluntly. "Reinforcements will never make it in time either, thanks to the Dons' deployment we all saw three hours ago," he added for good measure. "That leaves us with two choices: retreat back to Madrid and hope the boys in Sagunto can hold out long enough…" he let that idea fester for a moment before continuing with a savage grin, "…_or_ we bring the fight to the Dons anyway in the hopes that it'll scare them so hard they'll be changing their trousers every second of every day they think of the British goddamned army from now to the day they die!"

The enthusiastic cheers from the soldiers were commendable, but also a security liability, so the sergeant quickly waved them back down to silence. "That's the spirits, boys," he praised them. "Now, we've got a plan. It's a stupid plan, but a plan nonetheless," he informed them. "A convoy will be passing by Sagunto in four hours, at which point it will be impossible to get to it due to the enemy camp being so full of Dons the very air smells like sausage and booze," he briefed them. "The plan's simple: ambush the sodding bull-humpers and raise some hell so the Dons in Sagunto get all confused!"

His savage grin then decayed into a grim, vaguely displeased grimace, as if the next part hurt him just saying it. "Unfortunately, it won't be easy, and it's not a mission we're likely to all come back from. That convoy's probably got reinforcements in it and adequate escort, so the operation is pretty much a one-way trip, lads," he told them frankly—maybe a bit too frankly for Neville's tastes, but he knew he had to keep himself separate from the proceedings, lest his status as a mage colour the end result.

"So we need volunteers," the sergeant concluded. "Who here's willing to go spit in the Dons' faces?"

Neville watched patiently as the soldiers in the three sections he'd brought with him debated amongst themselves for a moment before the first of them rose to his feet, followed by another, and then another, and so forth. By the time they were done, Neville was pleased to see that all of them had risen from their places, all of them volunteers for the mission. He knew this wasn't always the case, of course; some people just weren't ready to risk their lives this readily.

"We'll need someone to get to command anyway," Neville reminded the sergeant in a whisper as he leaned in. "In case we fail."

The sergeant nodded. "Right then; Hawthorne, Beckett, you two are to get to command in Madrid and report to Army HQ what we've found," he ordered arbitrarily, thereby removing from the soldier pool the two youngest soldiers. Might as well use that energy to move quicker towards HQ, he figured. "The rest of you, gather your kits and get ready to move out in five. We've got a lot of terrain to cover, and not a lot of time to do it."

With that said, the sergeant dismissed the troops while the assigned two soldiers went with their sergeant to gather the accumulated intelligence for their trip. Their radio signals wouldn't reach as far as Madrid, and with the transmission jamming equipment the Spanish seemed to have, it was likely they'd have to report in person.

Meanwhile, Neville took a place by the senior sergeant and tucked in his hands into his blue greatcoat. "We'll stick out like a sore thumb if we move on foot," he noted.

The sergeant nodded. "Think you can turn the uniforms into something Spanish with that magic of yours?" he asked.

Neville shrugged. "I could, but the enchantment _will_ fade away before we manage to get to the convoy," he warned. "Better to get the real thing—no time limit, and stands up to inspection."

The sergeant grimaced. "But there's no way to get them without killing the guys in them," he pointed out. "Bloody uniforms are just as bad as fake ones."

Neville grinned. "Don't you worry about that," he assured the man as he drew out his hands and made gripping motions, cracking sounds ringing from the move. "I've got this."

* * *

"_Que haces, Juan?_"

The Spanish soldier who'd turned to look around frowned as he continued to examine the forest around his patrol. "_Juraría haber escuchado algo,_" he replied, still straining his ears to pick up on any errant sounds. Behind him, his patrol squad laughed amongst themselves.

"_Probablemente un ciervo_," his colleague suggested wryly, laughing then when a rabbit darted from one bush to another. "_Ves?_"

The soldier named Juan looked at the bushes where the rabbit had emerged from nervously, still uncertain whether it'd been his imagination or not that he'd seen a flash of blue and the sound of footsteps amongst the foliage. Was he really being paranoid? He couldn't help it, in a way—this entire war was driving him out of his mind. First, they're winning, then when the British strike back, they bring along some sort of superweapon that obliterates their defences, only to find out that said weapon is a person—a human being like himself, only possessing of powers far beyond the scope of a normal human being's.

He'd known quite a few of soldiers outside his own regiment, and within the year, most of them had been killed, almost all of them through engagements with the Second Army, with whom the monster in question—a man they initially only knew as _El Demonio_, and later as Harry Potter, known also as Francis White—had been stationed. Given that Sagunto was supposedly garrisoned by said army, Juan felt he was well within his rights in feeling absolutely terrified.

Still, he was holding up the patrol at the moment, and none of his squad mates seemed particularly worried. Maybe he _was_ being a bit too jumpy? Shrugging, he turned away from the bushes he'd been so keenly observing and began to walk back to his squad, his fellow soldiers still throwing the occasional jeer at him for his apparent cowardliness.

Hearing Sergio call him a wuss was the last thing Juan ever heard.

The patrol was stunned to see a flash of green light enveloped their comrade briefly before dissipating, causing the man to drop to the ground, dead before he hit it. Behind him, his hands locked before him in a pushing fashion, was a man wearing a blue greatcoat over an all-blue uniform which the Spanish had long since been trained to recognize due to its first wearer's fearsome reputation.

Military Mage.

Instantly, the patrol leapt into action by bringing up their weapons and firing at the mage, but were just as quickly foiled as a slab of tightly packed earth shot up in front of the mage, no doubt product of the man's magical ability. The patrol began reaching for their grenades when they heard the earth rumble around them for a moment before slabs of earth began to rise around _them_.

Panic quickly overtook deadly intent as they realized the slabs were bending and converging over them, making a couple of them dash for the slabs to avoid getting trapped in an earthen dome. Unfortunately, their intent had been foreseen by the mage, and as a result, earthen spikes shot out within the dome—only long enough to detract further charging towards them. The spikes worked, as the Spaniards all huddled together at the centre of the dome, which was now reaching its final completion as the light of day began to dim, and finally disappear before their eyes.

Hopefully one of the other patrols would have heard the gunfire and come to rescue them. Unfortunately, that wasn't going to happen, as this patrol was already the third one attacked.

Outside the dome, Neville observed his handiwork passionlessly. He hadn't liked using the Killing Curse, as it both used a lot of magic and also seemed to have severe physiological consequences for the user, but it had been necessary to eliminate the one soldier who'd been outside of his dome range. This next part was simple, however.

Walking forward towards the dome, he could faintly hear the sounds of angry, defiant shouting within the earthen structure, but as this was practically routine for him, Neville dismissed the shouting and placed a gloved hand on the dome, harnessing his magical power for the next step.

Closing his eyes, Neville allowed the magic to flow through his hand and into the dome, no longer needing to visibly know that flowers and grass were beginning to sprout from the structure. He continued pouring magic into the dome even so, until every inch of its outer shell was covered with vegetation, and the shouting inside became even more intensive and tinged with panic. Good, they were beginning to understand their predicament.

Despite the fact that he heard them shout surrenders at him, Neville kept going with his spell, knowing that any enemy troops left alive could ruin his detachment's mission. Soon, flowers began to bloom within the dome; flowers that, despite their beautiful appearance, had nothing beautiful about the effects of their pollen.

He now heard dulled gunfire inside the dome, probably an attempt to break out of the dome, but Neville knew that was useless. The earth would just regenerate itself with the abundance of magic he was pouring into it. Even if it didn't, the time they needed to carve a way out through gunfire would take more ammo than they had, or even just time.

He felt a tingle in his hand then, telling him that it was time. He drew back his hand, just as the shouting devolved into outright panicked screaming, and waited for ten minutes. On the dot, Neville looked up from his watch and snapped his finger at the dome, which crumbled into dust that the wind blew away. Left in its wake was a circular pattern track where the grass seemed to have simply disappeared, and eleven more bodies, untouched and unspoiled but for the terrified, panicked expressions they held at the moment of death.

"_Wingardum Leviosa,_" he intoned as he motioned towards the twelve bodies in total. The corpses began to float in the air, limp, and Neville observed his handiwork with some satisfaction. Not a single trace of violence on them or their uniforms.

Silently, Neville walked away from the scene, the corpses floating behind him as though led by a tether.

Just like that, the forest returned to its eerie quiet.

* * *

Getting to the hill they needed to get to was a lot harder than most people would think, given the flat terrain and general lack of Spanish troops in the track of land separating both geographical features. One would assume that, now that they were all dressed in Spanish combat fatigues, that they could just march their way unimpeded, but that wasn't the case.

First of all, they were thirty-seven in total, which meant that if they all wanted to get to the ambush spot at the same time to be ready for the convoy, they needed to keep a unanimously quick pace for quite a few kilometres. Beyond that, there were several checkpoints along the way—mostly to regulate traffic between the besieging army and the blockading forces.

Finally there was the language barrier.

In a country they were warring against, the British had lamentably few Spanish-speaking soldiers within their ranks, and those few who did know tended to hide this knowledge from their fellows for obvious reasons.

Fortunately, Neville had no time to deal with such petty reasoning, so the moment he found out that one of the privates, John Carver, was in fact _Juan_ Carver, son of a British man and Hispanic woman, he'd put his linguistic skills to good use when the patrols began to get called by their central command.

It also helped now, when they'd been forced to commandeer a few trucks to drive to their destination.

Neville and the rest of the sections waited patiently as Carver and three others—essentially a fireteam, walked up to the two soldiers guarding the cargo trucks at the gas station that doubled as a checkpoint. Through amazing luck, the vehicle depot lay behind the actual checkpoint, and so they were cleanly in the checkpoint sentries' blind spot.

The hidden troops watched patiently as Carver began making friendly chat with the two sentries, who both seemed momentarily confused due to the fact that they'd never seen him before, though they seemed to shrug off the unfamiliarity and soon got into a casual chat with Carver, not even noticing that the other three in his fireteam were unusually silent.

After a few minutes of chit-chat, however, the fireteam moved into position behind the sentries, acting as though they were observing the truck that the two sentries had been standing next to. In a flash after that, everything was over, as two of the fireteam drew combat knives and, clamping one mouth over their respective targets' mouths, stabbed deeply into the sentries' kidneys, slashing the renal artery in the process. Not content with just a single strike, however, the two assassins went for multiple stabs until they were certain the wound was irrevocably fatal. Only after they felt their victims go limp did they then put the two on the ground and wipe the blood off their knives before sheathing them.

Carver then appeared to say something to the lookout of the fireteam, who replied with a thumbs-up as he glanced around the edge of the truck. Carver reached into his fatigues and pulled out his communication mirror, aligning it just right to for Neville to see the flash.

"Area secure," Neville mumbled to himself, with the senior Sergeant nodding beside him as they crouched in the foliage. "Move out," he ordered almost automatically, despite the fact that as a Military Mage, even though he was technically a Lieutenant, he was still outside the Sergeant's command hierarchy.

Thankfully, it seemed the Sergeant wasn't about to quibble over authority, and acknowledged the order with a simple, "Sir," before ducking back towards the rest of the sections who were waiting. Within moments, the remainder of the makeshift platoon, all 23 of them, were waiting for the order.

"Let's go," Neville hissed as he moved out of the foliage and led the contingent towards the trucks at a trot, the whole operation necessitating a bit of speed. By the time they reached Carver and his team, two members of his fireteam were already dragging the bodies away into a nearby tool shed, while Carver and the lookout remained.

"Report," Neville ordered immediately.

Carver glanced at the lookout, who spoke up for the two of them. "It's going to be tricky, sir," the lookout reported. "We might be out of sight, but we're definitely not out of hearing range. The moment we turn on these babies, they'll be all over us."

Carver nodded, agreeing with this teammate's assessment. "That's not all," he added. "Even if they don't manage to nab us, the noise and the trucks' disappearance will be enough to get them on the radio to alert the rest of the Dons."

Neville shut his eyes tightly as he felt a migraine start to form. "Then we have to clear out the checkpoint," he concluded.

The sergeant, however, disagreed. "And what about any other patrols that have to come through here?" he challenged. "If the checkpoint guards are all dead or missing, it's a fair bet they'll alert their headquarters too, sir."

Neville swore under his breath. He hadn't thought of that. Thank goodness for NCOs, he supposed. "Then we have to sabotage that radio without making it _look_ like sabotage," he suggested then, giving silent thanks when he saw the troopers and the sergeant nod their heads. "Any suggestions?"

Carver and the lookout glanced at each other for a moment while the sergeant sighed, apparently in exasperation. "Sir," the sergeant began, looking at him askance. "Are you or are you not a mage?"

Neville blinked once before smacking his forehead lightly. How stupid was he? Magic would do the trick with even the simplest spell! "Right, forget I said anything," he quickly said. "Any idea where their radio is?"

Carver nodded. "I asked the sentries when we got here; told them I needed to report back to basecamp," he said, his English only slightly accented by the Spanish he'd spoken a few minutes ago. Clearly, Carver had worked hard to hide it prior to his outing as a Spanish-speaker. "It's in the convenience store by the fuelling stations."

Neville nodded at the soldier. "Excellent," he praised before looking to the sergeant. "Get these trucks ready to go," he ordered. "This ought to take just a few seconds."

The sergeant nodded. "Already got the lads loading up," he reported. "One section per truck. Lance Corporals at the back, Corporals at the passenger's seat up front. Got a private driving each one of them," he added before looking at Carver and the lookout. "Carver, Edmondson, your section is in truck two."

"Sir!"

Neville saluted back at the two privates as they acknowledged their orders and then went for their assigned truck, leaving Neville with the sergeant. "Okay, here's the plan," Neville told him. "I'll set up a ward around the building, which they'll be able to see pretty damn easily. However, the moment that's up, their communications will be fried, at which point we need to be gunning out of here ASAP," he informed his second in command. "Think you can get the trucks running by then?"

The Sergeant grinned. "Absolutely," he confirmed.

Neville nodded back at the man as he turned to get the drivers to do their jobs. Meanwhile, Neville used the cover of the numerous trucks in the carpool—as there were many more than his detachment needed—to move as close as he could to the gas station shop, making sure he couldn't be seen by any sentries or off-duty soldiers. Previously, it wouldn't really have mattered, as he would have had Carver around to provide some excuse. This time, however, he wouldn't have any chance to cover his ass through Carver, and if, when he started doing the warding magic, someone managed to see him, they'd immediately recognize him as a British Military Mage.

As he ducked behind one truck after another, he mentally judged the distance to the shop. Once he reached the last truck before the shop, he calculated he was about fifteen meters away from it. Close enough.

Leaning against the side of the truck, Neville took a few calming breaths before closing his eyes and curling his fingers into fists. Focusing his mind as Harry had taught him, he let the magic flow through his body and into his hands, which began to glow green with barely suppressed power. He had to act quickly now. Suppressed magic was one of the easiest ways to harm oneself, as the raw power, desperate for release, would start attacking its container until let out.

In this case, his hands.

He counted down from three as he tried to muster the courage to step out into the open and cast a very visible and _very_ obvious spell that would no doubt immediately attract unwanted attention of the lethal kind. Just as he counted two, he wondered what was taking the Sergeant so long in starting the trucks. At one, he heard their engines roar to life, and a couple of surprised shouts from the checkpoint told him the Spanish had heard too.

Zero. Cursing to himself, Neville stepped out from the protection of the truck, his hands alit with magical energy, and raised them towards the building, just as the people inside seemed to realize that something was wrong in the car pool. He saw a grizzled soldier notice him almost right away and raise his hand to point him out, and yet the man was too late.

Mumbling the incantation, Neville felt the magical energy leave his hands as it shot towards the building, the spell already forming as it raced towards its destination. He didn't bother to stay and watch as it actually formed, however. The moment the spell left his hands, he was already turning to run towards the stolen trucks.

Gunfire erupted then, coming entirely from behind him. The Spanish had obviously reacted quickly and were beginning to pursue him, or the trucks. Either way, Neville picked up his pace and sprinted towards his detachment, feeling relieved when he saw that two of them were already beginning to roll out while the third was waiting for him. Out of the back, he could see the sergeant calling out to him to run faster. Behind the man, soldiers raised their assault rifles and fired at the unseen pursuers behind him that he was sure were trying to kill him.

It wasn't like the movies (one of which he'd had the pleasure of seeing at a military camp once) at all, really. There was no slow motion, nor was he about to miss the truck by a second. Instead, he managed to run normally towards the truck, get lifted into the back by a corporal and another helpful private, and helped lift the back flap as they rolled away from the parking lot, stray bullets from their on-foot Spanish pursuers peppering his truck.

Getting an idea, Neville focused his magic in his hands and clapped, the magic racing into the ground underneath the first truck. A second later, earthen spikes shot up under each remaining vehicle in the motor pool. None of them, unlike what the movies loved to show, exploded, which sort of disappointed him. Nonetheless, his people were now on their way to pull off an insane stunt, and he had to focus.

Getting up from the floor, he walked over to the front most of the cargo area and sat next to the small window that separated the rear from the driver's cabin and knocked on it. A second later, it slid open, revealing the Sergeant's face.

"Glad to see you made it, sir," the Sergeant greeted him with a wry grin. "I suppose that bloody racket when we left was your doing?"

Neville nodded. "I daresay the Dons won't be following us any time soon," he noted sardonically. "Status on the other trucks?"

"They've slowed down to flanking positions on either side, and we sustained no casualties during the raid," the sergeant reported. "We're making great time, otherwise," he added. "We should be in position in about two hours, so get comfortable."

Neville nodded and sat back against the railing, emulating his fellow soldiers, who were all, understandably, quite exhausted after five days of non-stop backpacking across a large hill infested with enemy troops. Thankfully, they'd managed to scrounge up some ammunition at the checkpoint—most of it pre-stashed in the cargo trucks for rapid deployment, no doubt—so they wouldn't be hitting the convoy with stones and bad attitude.

He just hoped they got there in time. From the veritable columns of black smoke rising from Sagunto, it looked like the city wouldn't last much longer.

* * *

"HARRY! WE'RE LOSING IT!"

Harry discharged his sidearm into a climbing Spanish soldier's face just as he heard Xenophilius shout at him the alarming message. Four hours had passed since he'd assured Xenophilius that everything would be alright—and that observation was quickly becoming harder to repeat, as the Spanish redoubled their efforts to breach the magically defended castle, and the British survivors fought tooth and nail to keep them at bay.

Already, small gaps in their defences—caused by either gunfire or explosives, or a mixture of both—were quickly getting plugged in by Spanish troops managing to finally breach the parapet defences. Their numbers were minimal, of course, but for every Don who went over the wall, another British trooper died needlessly.

Over the radio, he could hear similar panicked reports coming from all over, all of them essentially summarized by Speirs' private transmission to his frequency moments later.

"_White, we can't hold out much longer,_" the heroic general told him firmly, even as Harry ended another Spaniard's life with a blasting spell to the chest. "_I recommend we activate our contingency plan right now, or else we're done for the moment the Dons hit ground._"

Harry cursed to himself. He knew Speirs was right, and that Xenophilius' panic was well-earned. He'd put off the plan as long as he could, truthfully, because he expected another pawn in his grand scheme to act first, thereby confusing the enemy. No such luck, so far, even though he knew Neville would manage to survive cut off from the main army.

Nothing for it, then.

"Speirs, give the order," he ordered over his earpiece. "Gloves are coming off, ladies and gentlemen," he then transmitted to the other Military Mages, many of whom were still waiting for deployment orders within the fort itself. "Engage at will."

He pulled on his gloves then, making sure they were tightly _on_, observing the puzzled expression on the enemy soldier's face as another one tried to climb over the wall. The expression lasted for a second before it was burned to charcoal, courtesy of a finger snap from Harry in his direction. Casting a strong anti-ballistic shield before him, Harry stepped onto the battlements, the siege ladder which the Spanish had been using to get over the wall in the space between his legs, and raised his hands to his sides.

For a moment, he took the chance to admire the gory scenery before him. The entire fortress hill seemed to be crawling with Spanish troopers filtering in from the city. Within the city itself, many more could be seemed marching through the streets confidently, assured that the British artillery had been destroyed. Harry wondered where the Spanish commander would be amongst the organized chaos in the city. Would he be at the front-most building, to have easier access to his troops? Or perhaps at the very back, surrounded by the reserves to prevent any magical attempts on his life?

None of that mattered anymore. The Spanish were about to overrun the fortress, and Harry had no choice but to accelerate his plan. He merely needed a thought for the magical energy to course through his being, accumulating at his hands. A year and a half ago, a single Fiendfyre spell would've knocked him on his ass, exhausting as that spell was to cast wandlessly.

He had grown since then.

"_Incendium Malus,_" he incanted, his hands suddenly bursting into flames as he brought them up to bear on the enemy troops, who froze at the sight of it.

Stories had long been circulating amongst the Spanish troops of the Briton who'd unleashed the very fires of hell on the beachhead at Rupuente. They had spoken of a titanic snake made of fire who gobbled up and ran through all the Spanish defences within seconds, burning everyone and everything in its path to ashes.

Within seconds, over two hundred Spanish troops died in the birthing burst of twin, titanic fire snakes. The two fiery vessels of Harry's wrath had been born from the two sparks his snapping fingers had caused, the spark consuming the immediate air around it and fuelling its own creation, until they became the monstrous snakes that had ravaged Rupuente a year and a half ago.

Panic gripped the magic-less Spanish forces then as they immediately recognized the beast and ran for their lives. Unfortunately for them, Harry had counted on this. He tapped his earpiece.

"This is Hellfire to all units; Caduceus has been delivered. Proceed with step two," he ordered via wireless.

"_Sir!_" he heard the cacophony of acknowledgements through his earpiece.

Within moments, he saw what seemed to be a ring of explosions rip through the city of Sagunto, cutting off the bulk of the Spanish forces which had been attacking the fortress hill from their reinforcements. When the dust cleared, a fifteen foot deep, twenty feet wide trench came into sight, the work of Harry's explosive-specialized Military Mages, such as Earthshaker and Meteor.

"Report," Harry ordered immediately, ignoring the relieved shouts of celebration from the British defenders all throughout the fortress parapets.

"_Sir! Trench complete! We lost Quake and Meteor while withdrawing, sir!_" the familiar voice of Earthshaker informed him, a tinge of grieving anger in his rough voice.

Harry swore. Meteor had been a powerful mage, and Earthshaker's partner. This wasn't the time for grieving, however. "Copy that. Initiate step three," he ordered. "Fire Mages, deploy."

"_Sir!_"

Moments later, he spied a large group of mages start to deploy along the parapets, all of them wearing the blue uniform that set them apart from the rest of the armed forces. These were, for lack of a better explanation, Harry's apprentices. More accurately, these men and women were those who followed in Harry's footsteps as fire-based mages who, while capable of other spells, excelled—and perhaps even revelled—in pyrotechnics.

The Spanish, for their part, seemed to recognize that something absolutely catastrophic was heading their way, and what level of panic they had already been at seemed to double within seconds as they started rushing the fortress and firing desperately, hoping to take down some of the mages before they managed to fire their deadly spells.

No such luck. With a flick of his wrists, Harry sent his two Fiendfyre serpents onto the advancing enemy, incinerating them in moments. Moving his fingers, he directed the serpents to cut a large swathe in the enemy troops, soon joined in by a multitude of other fire-based spells, such as your average fireball or even the dreaded Firestorm spell, which one of his mages seemed capable enough to direct towards the enemy.

The screams were horrible—they always were—and yet Harry refused to stop and react to the utter monstrosity that he was unleashing on the enemy. He had to do this. He had to show them that he wasn't kidding around; that if they cornered him, the gloves came off. Most importantly, however, he wanted to cultivate their fear.

Fear drove armies to panic, and that meant the loss of any gains their discipline might have afforded them. It made them make mistakes, which he could use to exterminate all opposition. That was why he baited the Order, why he cultivated his fearsome reputation before the Spaniards.

It was only then that he heard an unexpected explosion ring out from afar. His attention momentarily diverted—causing the flame serpents to writhe, as though they were trying to break free from his control—he glanced over towards the northern approach of the city, and was surprised to see black smoke rising from the distance.

It took him a few moments to realize what was probably going on, and then his expression turned gleeful. Clenching his fists before him, the snakes writhed in their death throes before collapsing into themselves. If his guess was right, then it was time for step four.

Hopping down from the battlements, Harry tapped his earpiece. "This is Hellfire. Begin step four; all batteries, open fire on marked locations," he ordered.

Almost immediately, the few mages in the castle courtyard began running to and fro, incanting cancelling spells every few meters. Gradually, the concealment spells faded away, revealing at least thirty 25-pounder Howitzers aimed up at the sky, each piece fixed into the ground with trail pits to ensure maximum elevation. Their barrels had all been cranked up as high as possible to ensure that the shells wouldn't go too far, and each had been fixed with dial sight adaptors.

"Battery, report!" Harry ordered gruffly.

Speirs answered him, having left the security of the fortress to stand with the artillerymen. "_Still getting into position, White,_" came the curt response. "_Battery will be ready in two minutes._"

Harry nodded to himself. "Copy that," he acknowledged before switching channels. "Fire Mages, increase rate of fire. Blasting Mages, provide support. Wards, report."

"_Fire Mages acknowledge._"

"_Blasting Mages acknowledge._"

"_Wards reporting; Sir, we've lost Jackson, and Kilburn has collapsed. Anti-ballistic shield is holding, but barely. Another two rounds of artillery, and we're done,_" he heard a woman report.

Harry grimaced. The anti-ballistic shield was the only real thing preventing the Spanish from using air-based vehicles and general artillery to wipe them out. If it fell, the Spanish could withdraw and bomb them from afar at their leisure.

"Copy that," he replied, keeping his voice sounding confident. "Give it all you've got, soldiers; we're nearly there."

"_Wards copy, Hellfire. Over and out._"

Harry wished he could help the warders' plight, but sadly he had no talent for wards. Neville, in fact, was better suited for the task than he was, and the man was, if Harry was correct, pulling off an insanely brave and suicidal stunt to get the Spanish to back off.

That meant that Neville needed time.

Good thing for Harry that he was an expert in buying people time on the battlefield.

Harry climbed back onto the battlements, his ballistic shield holding back the pot-shots the fleeing Spaniards kept firing at the fortress, and lit his hands with magical energy.

"_Incendium Malus_."

* * *

_Thirty Minutes Ago…_

The ride to the ambush spot had been dull, all things considered. Despite having raided a military checkpoint and gotten away with three trucks, it seemed that the attempt at disrupting communications had succeeded well beyond what they had expected. Nearly an hour and a half had passed since they'd left the checkpoint, and not even a helicopter had flown by to intercept the miniature convoy as they raced towards the ambush spot.

Not that any of the soldiers were complaining—any time that the enemy was loathe to track them down and shoot at them was a welcome one. Nonetheless, it _was_ making them slightly edgy, as this meant that for the past hour and a half, they'd been doing exactly nothing except checking their weapons, exchanging small talk amongst each other, and letting the dread towards the incoming mission wash over them.

Leaning against the driver cabin, Neville waited a few minutes before knocking idly on the window at the back of the cabin. Immediately, the glass slid sideways and the Sergeant peeked out. "Sir?" he asked.

"What's our status?" asked Neville.

"Five minutes out, sir," the Sergeant replied. "All troops report combat readiness," he added.

Neville nodded. "The convoy?" he asked next.

"Carver's been listening in on the radio chatter—looks like they're on schedule," the Sergeant replied. "We're ahead of them by about half an hour."

Neville was silent for a moment. "Half an hour's not that long," he noted grimly.

The Sergeant nodded out of sight. "Won't be much time to get to cover, that's for sure."

Neville thought about that. Sure, the original plan had called for the troops to take cover amidst the tree line on the hill next to the road, but what if he took out that option? What if, instead, _he_ provided them with the necessary cover?

…sure, it was crazy, but who dares wins, right?

"Change of plans, Sergeant, gun the truck right for the convoy," Neville ordered the man, who sputtered in surprise.

"_Excuse me_, sir?" the man choked out. "Did I hear you right? You want us to _charge_ the convoy?"

"Damn right I do," Neville replied, noting that the other soldiers in the back with him were openly goggling at him in horrified surprise. "Half an hour's too little time to get us all in position, and the cover's minimal, at best. So, new plan: I make the cover, and those bastards don't see this ambush coming from the front."

There was silence for a moment while the Sergeant pondered the idea, though the soldiers were noticeably less restrained in their vocal horror. After a moment of incomprehensible shouting, the Sergeant shut the dissenters up with a short but powerful, "SHUT UP!"

And they did—probably as a result of indoctrinated training to keep quiet when ordered. Whatever it was, Neville was glad for it.

"A charging ambush, is it?" the Sergeant mused. "…I suppose it _is _crazy enough to work. Alright; Private, gun the damn accelerator and aim right for the middle of the convoy!" he barked at the driver.

"The middle?" asked Neville.

"Causes more chaos," the sergeant explained. "If we hit the front, they'll just use the reserves from the middle and back to push against our lesser numbers till we break," he added. "But if we hit their middle, they'll be screaming bloody murder and wetting their pants before they realize they've got us outnumbered ten to one."

Neville wasn't so sure, but he decided to defer to the sergeant's veteran status.

The ride to the convoy was noticeably much more tense than the previous legs of the journey had been, given that the soldiers were now aware that they would be charging headfirst against superior numbers, with only the element of surprise and sheer ballsiness on their side.

As they neared the convoy, however, Neville heard the sergeant swear quite colourfully and loudly. Instantly, he tapped the window and it slid open. "Report," he ordered.

"It's not a supply convoy," was the sergeant's brief summary.

Neville raised his eyebrows in surprise. "It's not?" he asked, confused. "Reinforcements?" he asked.

"Better," the sergeant replied, the sound of something hitting the dashboard. "It's a civilian convoy. A _special_ kind of civvie convoy."

Neville heard the driver start shouting joyful obscenities then, and the radio seemed to come alive with such chatter. Neville started to have an idea as to why, but he wanted confirmation before he got his hopes up.

"What kind?"

"The prime ministerial kind."

Neville felt his hopes soar. This was it—the way of turning Sagunto around, and perhaps even end the war in one blow.

"Sergeant," he spoke up, "Charge them down."

"With pleasure, sir," the sergeant replied, a hint of the man's feral joy lacing his tone. "Private, your heard the man—hit the gas and ram this truck down their fucking throats!"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

* * *

The results of Neville's charge were…predictable, to say the least.

The three army trucks, barrelling at full speed towards the middle of the armed civilian convoy, took the travelling convoy entirely by surprise, crashing into them at full speed and forcing a few of their own army trucks into a road ditch on the other side of the road. It probably helped that Neville transfigurated the front of their truck so as to possess six deadly looking spikes to ram through the troop truck they aimed for—although that particular action also shorted out the truck's electrical system as well.

Naturally, the soldiers in the conductor cabins all but stumbled out of it, dazed and a little confused due to the heavy impact. The soldiers in the rear, however, had no trouble getting out and quickly fanned out as they began to engage the stunned Spanish soldiers who were providing convoy escort.

Neville himself was one of the first out, dropping to the ground and simultaneously bringing up his sidearm to fire it off at a recuperating Spanish trooper who'd been thrown clear of one of the rammed troop transports.

Feeling something zip right by his head, Neville next turned to see a couple of soldiers levelling their firearms at him shakily and quickly dispatched them as he raised his hand and fire off a transfiguration spell at the ground in front of them, causing spikes to burst out and impale them.

"Fan out! Fireteams move to objective by the numbers!" the sergeant was roaring over the commotion they'd caused by ramming head-first into a convoy. "Secure the civilian vehicles! Take down the guard detail!" he ordered.

So many orders, so little time before the bulk of the Spanish army realized that their precious civilian convoy was under attack and came to obliterate them. Heck, they wouldn't have to wait long for any reinforcements, either, seeing as the convoy was well outside the magical wards of Sagunto, which prevented airborne vehicles from flying within the area.

Fortunately, the surprise attack had the Spanish with their pants down, so Neville was able to quickly formulate a makeshift ward spell that covered the length of the convoy, disrupting any electronics within the convoy and buying the raid some time before the main army at Sagunto noticed something had gone wrong.

The spell done, Neville raised his sidearm and dashed for cover as more Spanish troops raced to meet the raiders, firing their weapons wildly in an effective attempt at suppressing fire. Neville, however, had a very good counter for it.

Closing his eyes, he raised his middle and pointer fingers of his free hand and channelled magic into the ground, causing an earthen barrier to shoot out of the ground.

"Cover formed!" he shouted to his troops. "Move to intercept!"

With a fierce battle cry, a fireteam raced to the newly formed wall and took cover behind it as they opened fire on the advancing Spanish guards, driving the enemy into taking cover as well.

For a moment, Neville wished that the ward hadn't disrupted the radios his detachment carried, but there was no use crying over spilt milk. "Anyone got eyes on the target?" he shouted as he leaned out of cover and fired a shot into a cowering Spanish soldier who'd been peeking out of cover to see if the coast was clear. "Sergeant?"

"Negative, sir!" the sergeant yelled back on the other side of the truck separating them. "Civvie vehicles are towards the rear. We hit the escort contingent!" he reminded Neville.

Neville cursed. "I need a fireteam on me!" he yelled as he broke out of cover and started running towards the back of the convoy.

"Fireteam Charlie! Back up the Lieutenant!" he heard the sergeant roar over the constant sound of gunfire.

It took a few moments, during which Neville was essentially storming the rear of the convoy by himself, but soon enough he heard gunfire to his right and knew the assigned fireteam had caught up with him.

"Fireteam Charlie, report!" he yelled. More sound of gunfire.

"Sir! Corporal Donahue reporting!" he heard the response. "Looks like bodyguards filtering out of the civvie vehicles! We're being pinned down one car north!"

Neville swore and quickly skidded to a halt as he stopped his charge in front of an obviously armoured car, judging by the lack of penetration from British gunfire. Indeed, he could see bodyguards taking cover behind open doors—also heavily armoured, it seemed—taking potshots at his men.

Well, to hell with that.

Neville holstered his sidearm and raised both hands. With a grunt, he felt a pulse of magic shoot out towards the car, which immediately bent to the magic's will. Within moments, the whole car was a metallic reproduction of a porcupine, impaling the bodyguards outside _and_ anyone who might still be inside. No sense taking chances.

"Clear?" yelled Neville. Good grief, by the end of the mission, it wouldn't be surprising if they all went weeks with a sore throat!

"Clear!" Donahue replied as he and his team moved into view and deftly avoided the bloodied spikes from the car. "Moving up!"

Neville nodded as he drew his firearm again and moved in sync with the fireteam, accurately shooting any bodyguard who came into view. If there was one thing to be said about Auror training, it was that their accuracy training was second to none.

A bodyguard soon surprised Neville as he stepped into view just seconds before Neville would crash into him. Knowing there was no way to slow down in time, Neville simply hopped, kneed the bastard in the face, and dropped on his feet, turning only to fire into the man as he lay there with a broken nose, dazed by whatever the hell had just happened. He was dead a second later.

Neville continued his charge until they reached the halfway point, where he began to wonder where the hell the presidential car was. Or Prime Ministerial. Whatever.

"Any sign of the target?" he yelled.

A spatter of gunfire. "Negative, sir!" Donahue replied. "No marked cars in sight!"

Neville cursed. "Damnit!" he yelled to himself, before adding to Donahue. "Check each one! One by one!"

"Sir!"

There was no question as to whether the fireteam would recognize the Prime Minister or not. Each individual British soldier was issued a pack of playing cards that had a picture of a highly valued target on each card. It was something they'd picked up from the Americans, and it had taken to water amongst the British troops.

The problem was finding the weasel bastard. Apparently the Spanish hadn't been taking any chances and had made up the civilian part of the convoy as indistinguishable from each other as possible, and it was working. Between him and the fireteam, Neville could only count with five troopers, himself included. They had maybe ten cars to go through—excluding the one making a porcupine impression—and there was no telling whether any of the cowering passengers inside the intact cars were armed.

Neville swore. "Pair up!" he ordered. "Odd man out on me! One pair per car!"

Immediately, the fireteam split into pairs and the odd man out, a Private with short brown hair whose nametag read Billson, slid over the trunk of one of the armoured cars to link up with him. Immediately, Neville nodded at Private Billson and motioned to the car.

"Door," he said simply.

With a nod, Billson levelled his weapon in one hand as he reached for the door clasp and pulled, opening the door while Neville held up his firearm to shoot any hiding hostiles.

No one inside. A bodyguard car, it seemed.

"Clear," he said calmly. "Next car, go."

Again, a nod in response as the young man dashed to the next car, Neville right behind him, this time taking his spot next to the car door. He saw the soldier lift his assault rifle and nod. With a yank, the door opened and the Billson narrowed his eyes.

"Hands in the air!" he shouted, making Neville step up next to him and raise his own sidearm.

"Hands in the goddamn air!" he added to the soldier's shouts. Unfortunately, it wasn't their target they found, but rather what seemed to be a gaggle of officials who were no doubt also trying to escape.

"I don't see him, sir," Billson spoke up.

"Next car," Neville said simply.

"WE GOT HIM!" Neville heard Donahue shout further down the line of cars. "WE GOT THE BASTARD!"

Both Billson and Neville's heads shot up at that moment, and one of the officials in the car decided to take advantage of that momentary distraction to play hero. Unfortunately, this wasn't an action movie, and the man wasn't Bruce Willis or any other action star. Thus, for trying to get a grip on Billson's assault rifle, the man got instinctively sprayed with bullets until the inside of the car was rife with his blood.

"STAY THE FUCK WHERE YOU ARE!" Billson shouted furiously at the now utterly terrified civilians inside. "The next _fucking_ wanker who moves gets a bullet in their gob, got it?"

Neville heard the few women inside the car whimper and a whole lot of what sounded like prayer before he clapped a hand on Billson's shoulder, which was shaking, oddly enough. "Private, let's go. We've got a war to win."

Billson took a moment to collect himself before he nodded and backed off from the opening, his weapon still levelled at the blood-drenched innards of the car. When they were both sure they were out of grasping or heroics reach, Neville and he turned to jog over to where Corporal Donahue stood looking like he'd won the lottery thirty times over. Kneeling by the rest of his fireteam was an older man, his hands clasped behind his head and rocking himself ever so slightly while making almost inaudible whimpers.

"This him?" Neville asked sceptically as he observed the man who'd launched a war on his country.

Donahue grinned. "Don't look like a prized terrier, but that's the wanker indeed, sir," he affirmed all smiles. "Just needed to stick a gun in some berk's face and they gave up ol' sniffles here quicker than a tart loses her clothes."

Neville grinned at the _very_ vulgar way Donahue had described the capture and clapped him on the shoulder. "Donahue, I do think you've just won us our war," Neville asserted. "Next three rounds are on me."

"Three? I expect free ale and loose skirts for life!" One of the Prime Minister's guards spoke up.

While the fireteam had a laugh at that, Neville climbed up on top of the car and then hoped onto the truck at the front of the civilian part of the convoy. He couldn't just yet see the Sergeant or the rest of the detachment, but the sound of gunfire told him the fight along the convoy was still going on. Time to put a stop to that, then.

He turned to face the fireteam. "Hog-tie the wanker and let's go," he ordered as he jumped down onto the civilian car's hood and then onto the ground. "More fighting to be done, and I expect this fella," he grabbed the Prime Minister by the neck with his arm. "Will make a bloody good bullet shield."

* * *

The fighting didn't stop the moment the Spanish Prime Minister was captured, however. Unlike a game, real combat tends to go on until everyone hears the news or one side is dead. Fortunately, the former option occurred in Sagunto as the battle began reaching its fever pitch.

The beleaguered British defenders, having suddenly rallied around a surprise attack that split the Spanish forces in two, had sallied out, led by the Military Mages, to retake the town in a last-ditch attempt at blitzing their way into victory. At the head of the sallying action was Harry himself, whose twin Fiendfyre snake constructs went through the Spanish troops like water through toilet paper.

Thus, when the news filtered in that the Prime Minister of Spain—the real culprit behind the devastating war—had been captured, Harry and his men were smack dab in the middle of fierce street fighting. While many Spanish troopers who heard the news surrendered almost immediately, there were still a few who hadn't heard the news or refused to bow to the inevitable, and kept fighting.

The result was that up to three hours after the news hit the Spanish HQ in Sagunto, fighting was still rife in parts of the city, where mostly fanatical troops held on against the reinvigorated British forces.

It was a testament to the fighting's intensity, in fact, that when Harry, Speirs, and General Alejandro Ruiz-Perez all met to settle the terms of surrender, none of the three men were in any way, shape, or form presentable according to typical codes of dress for such a situation. Speirs' uniform was torn at various places and smudged with dirt nearly everywhere, and his helmet was missing—presumably riddled with holes when he ducked in the nick of time as a Spanish HMG position opened fire on him during the sallying action. Harry's uniform was singed from his own magical flames and had one sleeve nearly shredded entirely from the intense street fighting, and he was limping from a nasty gash in his left leg—now professionally bandaged. General Ruiz-Perez, the best dressed of the three, had his uniform covered in dust, dirt, and torn at the seams. All in all, one would have never imagined their meeting, set up in a bombed out home, to be one that would end the war. It certainly would have never matched the public's imagination as to how these proceedings went.

And yet, went they did. Realizing the fact that he was finished, General Ruiz-Perez placed his sidearm, holster and all, on the table between him and Harry and Speirs. "I ask only that my men be spared from any ignoble retaliation, General White," he said, his voice thickly accented with his native Spanish. "Whatever the differences between our countries, gentlemen do not revenge themselves on those not at fault."

Speirs had then leaned down to whisper in Harry's ear, presumably to advise him on how to proceed. Whatever he heard, Harry seemed willing to take it at face value and nodded to Ruiz-Perez. "Deal, General," he agreed as he took Ruiz-Perez's holstered firearm into his hand and then offered it back. "In return, I want you to order the resistance movement across to stand down."

The Spanish general looked at Harry a little uneasily. "I am not the one responsible for the _Resistencia_'s movements and doings, General White," he protested. "I am not sure what effect you think my orders will do."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "General, I am fully aware that you, amongst your peers, carry the most weight in terms of fame and influence amongst the populace," he stated bluntly. "They will listen to you. Order them to stand down, or I make no promises regarding _anything_," he threatened. It was a tenuous threat, and he knew it, especially considering that in terms of military might, the Spanish general had him beat at the moment. His only card in play right now was the fact that the Prime Minister was in his power.

The bluff worked; the Spaniard looked at his counterpart across the table and sighed in defeat as he nodded. "As you say, General White. I will broadcast the order today," he promised.

Harry heard Speirs give a small sigh of relief—practically inaudible—and sympathized with his colleague. The Fifth Army would be able to have a much easier time holding down the occupied sections of Spain if the guerrillas stood down, especially given the difficulty of uprooting such irregular combatants.

It was part of the reason why the Fifth Army, despite being based in Madrid, could not come to their aid with any real quickness. Any forces not already in combat were being tasked with anti-insurgency operations, which was severely draining British resources.

With this, however, the insurgency would hopefully stop, and with that, it would mean that resistance from the Spanish was ultimately futile and doomed.

Harry snapped his fingers and immediately a trooper came forward to stand beside his chair. "Your radio, soldier," he ordered. Harry had picked this specific soldier for the sole reason of still having a functional radio, courtesy of the man's guard duty over the civilians who had been hiding in Sagunto Castle. The thick, magically reinforced walls had done well to protect the piece of equipment.

With due speed, the soldier unclasped his holding pouch and dug out his handheld radio, passing it to Harry, who then placed it on the table before the Spanish general.

"No time like the present, General," he stated calmly.

The Spaniard had a brief look of distaste, as though he hated being cornered and push around like this, but picked up the handheld without vocal protest. Observing the channel, he pressed the dials to the appropriate channel and brought up the radio to his mouth, pressing the talk button and glancing momentarily at Harry, as though sizing him up.

He paused for a moment, reluctant to continue, but then opened his mouth. "_Habla el General Ruíz Perez del Segundo Ejército Real,_" he stated in Catalonian-accented Spanish. "_A todas las fuerzas regulares e irregulars que puedan oir este mensaje. El Primer Ministro ha sido capturado y ha capitulado. Repito, el Primer Ministro ha sido capturado y ha capitulado. Bajen sus armas y rindanse ante las fuerzas Inglesas. La guerra ha acabado. Hemos perdido. Fin de mensaje._"

He let go of the talk button and waited now—everyone in the room did, anxious to see what would happen. Would the troops and irregular forces obey? Would they not? Everyone waited with baited breath.

One minute. Two. Five. Ten.

Nothing seemed to be happening, and as Harry began to conclude that this apparent war hero had indeed very little clout amongst the Spanish irregulars and the other combatants still fighting the British tooth and nail, the radio suddenly crackled to life.

"_General, mensaje copiado,_" a defeated-sounding voice rang out from the handheld, which was still in the general's hand. "_El Decimo-Tercero regimento de Barcelona está bajando sus armas. Hemos reenviado su mensaje, y tenemos confirmación que la Resistencia de Barcelona se ha comenzado a rendir._"

The Spanish general was grim faced as he listened to the radio report. "Barcelona is yours, General White," he said evenly, despite the obvious pain in his eyes. "I dare say this will be the first of a torrent of such reports, if our most ardent fighters are surrendering so fast."

Harry nodded, a pleased, yet equally grim look in his eyes. "I certainly hope so, General," he said. "This war has gone long enough."

Even as he spoke these words, the radio, as the Spaniard had predicted, buzzed to life as report after report came in of Spanish forces declaring their intentions to surrender, intermingled with a few here and there that refused to do so. All the while, General Ruíz-Perez could do nothing but listen as his country fell to a foreign army.

Speirs, meanwhile, looked relieved that everything was going so well, and bent down to whisper to Harry.

"I didn't know those radios had such output as to reach Barcelona," he observed wryly.

Harry had to suppress a smile. "They don't."

"Then?"

"We recovered relaying equipment from the Spanish during the sallying action. It's boosting the signal to Madrid and other regional centres," Harry explained. "When Madrid heard the message, they probably retransmitted it to the rest of Spain."

Speirs nodded. "Good thinking," he said softly. "But how did you know he'd agree to send the message?" he asked.

"I didn't," Harry replied honestly. "It was a gamble."

Speirs looked a little shocked, but then smiled approvingly as he glanced to the defeated Spanish general, who remained stiff at attention and his head bowed in defeat as the reports came filtering in. "Well, congratulations then; your gamble worked."

The war was over.

But even as the British soldiers in Spain celebrated, the gathering storm clouds of another conflict were already forming up in the horizon. That was the problem with wars—no matter how many you stamped out, another one was ready to take its place.

And this one would change the world.

* * *

**London, United Kingdom, October 15****th****, 2010 (D-Day +627 – VS-Day)…**

"So, tell me again _why_ the Spanish Prime Minister just _happened_ to be heading for Sagunto?"

Sirius grinned at his old friend as he returned a book he'd been reading to its place on his bookshelf. "It's not that hard, Remus," he chided playfully. "Barcelona was under siege by two full field armies, and they had only two to defend the city with. Even if the First and Third somehow botched it up, that still leaves the Second, Fourth, and Fifth Armies to finish the job—they didn't have that same amount of backup. So, they decided to evacuate," he explained as he picked another book and drew it out, observing its well-worn green cover.

A book on Metternich. Why not? Could be interesting.

Remus, meanwhile, was sitting in a comfortable lounge chair his oldest friend in the world had offered him in his study. "So they decided to run?" he asked, the movement of his mouth making the triple scars on his face twitch ever so slightly; a parting gift from a particularly vicious Werewolf in Europe.

Sirius nodded. "Correct," he confirmed. "Intel that the First Army recovered confirms that the Prime Minister panicked and ordered a retreat to Mallorca," he told Remus as he drummed his thumbs on the book cover. He then raised it with one hand towards Remus, giving his friend a sly grin. "The bugger thought that if they could hold out in Mallorca, we would send our armies after him and destroy ourselves in trying to take the island."

Remus shook his head in amazement. "Utterly foolish," he judged. "Mallorca would've been bombed into submission."

Sirius chuckled as he moved back to his desk and sat in his office chair. He closed his eyes in contentment as it perfectly moulded to his figure. "That's what the bastard's officers said," he told Remus. "He didn't care. Ordered what was left of the Second Royal Army to escort him and his cabinet to Sagunto and board ships for Mallorca. Air was too dangerous, and they still had a fleet of ships in the Mediterranean that the Royal Navy hadn't sunk," he added.

"Harry got lucky," Remus noted. "If it hadn't been for the Prime Minister being a coward, he and the rest of his forces would've gotten butchered eventually," he noted. "Did you see the casualty rate for his forces at Sagunto? Makes me sick just looking at it."

Sirius nodded grimly. "Aye. He had to file an official report, so all of Parliament saw how precarious the situation was," he informed Remus before smiling thinly. "On the plus side, it's made it impossible for the military to deny him any promotions, whatever the brass' misgivings about him."

"Oh?"

Sirius nodded. "Harry is now a bona fide General," he announced proudly. "Crown, pip, and sword and baton—the whole deal. Four star man of wonder," he added jocularly. "He's also got himself an admirer, it seems," he added with a chuckle. "General Curtis has been tracking his progress, and allegedly said that he was, and I quote, 'the only man amongst the officers,' for having had the nerve to stand his ground at Sagunto."

Remus raised an eyebrow at that, and Sirius snickered as he opened his book. "I may have paraphrased the second part. Word has it there were quite a few outraged officers when she said what she _actually_ said."

"I bet," Remus observed wryly. "So when's Harry due back?"

"Last I heard, he should be arriving in two days," Sirius said with a smile. "By then, Warwick will have raised quite the media storm to bolster his already enormous reputation."

The intercom on his phone rang then, surprising both men, though Sirius reacted with well-practiced nonchalance as he pressed the speaker button. "Yes?" he asked.

"_Sir, Baron Warwick is on the phone; shall I patch him through?_" the musical, incorporeal sound of his secretary's voice asked.

Sirius and Remus exchanged glances at this point—one worried, one suddenly grim and determined—just as Sirius pushed the talk button again. "Speak of the devil…Patch him through, Emily," he ordered, and moments later the phone began ringing with a dual-tone.

Sparing it only two rings, Sirius pressed the loudspeaker button. "Joshua, nice to hear from you," he said pleasantly.

"_Same to you, old chap. Unfortunately, I believe we're going to have to dispose of the pleasantries,_" the Baron's voice said before he paused for a beat. "_Something's happened, and Parliament's in a right fit._"

"Oh?" Sirius asked, catching Remus' increasingly anxious gaze, and making a hand sign near his throat to make sure Remus understood that he had to stay quiet. "Do tell."

"_Riot broke out this morning along Tower Hill Road_," Warwick said. "_Big one. At least twenty dead, maybe six times that in wounded._"

"I'd heard, yes," Sirius answered levelly. "My understanding is that the uniforms managed to contain it, though, so what's this about?"

There was a pause again, like Warwick was himself trying to process what he knew. "_Someone's stolen the Imperial State Crown_," he finally said.

* * *

_**Post-AN**: So, this chapter essentially finishes what I imagine to be the "Origins Arc," whereby Harry's childhood, his training, and rise to a position of fame are covered. Next up should be the "Rise to Power Arc," which is pretty self-explanatory._

_If people feel the initial dialogue is odd, I might be revising it at a later point. Also, about the foreign-language parts, I'm not translating them because, really, they don't really have any sort of massive, storyline impact that hasn't been brought up in English subsequently. Cheers. - MB.  
_


	8. Chapter VII: General of the North

_AN:_ _Wow. Has it been a long time or what? Sorry about that folks, had lots on my plate between working as a translator, job hunting, and my master's degree. I'd like to promise that this won't happen ever again, but as this massive, unforgivable lapse in updates has proven, I can't really give any guarantees. That said, I will try to make the next update come faster-and seeing the final Harry Potter movie has helped a lot in overcoming a serious case of writer's block._

_For now, cheers, and hope you like the chapter. :)_

_- MB_

* * *

**London, United Kingdom, October 20****th****, 2010…**

That the military emergency government was quickly wearing thin on the civilian population was no secret at all. However, that it was so incompetent so as to lose one of the crowning symbols of the nation…that was simply the last straw for many a discontent civilian.

It barely took two days for the disappearance of the crown to become widely known, and soon after that, the riots in the streets intensified to such a point that even the Armed Forces detachments sent to reinforce the riot police were beginning to feel overwhelmed.

It barely helped the government that at the same time, Harry and the first of the British troops deployed to Spain arrived. In fact, for these hardened veterans, it seemed a sort of malicious joke that the country they had been fighting to defend and avenge for over a year now had descended into quasi-anarchy, perpetuated by what seemed to be a wholly inefficient government.

As a result, the flood of incoming veterans were none too pleased with the government, with the vast majority refusing to comply with orders to deploy against civilian riots, while not participating in these either. Most of these war-hardened soldiers simply decided to stand aside and let the bunglers fix their own mess, but Harry knew better.

That the troops refused to cooperate with the government was magnificent news for him. Discontent troops were the most liable to be influenced, and while the Liverpudlians would follow his lead almost unquestioningly, he could not say the same of the other regiments who, despite being indebted to him, owed him no hierarchical loyalty.

Harry knew this, and he knew that no amount of wartime experience would bridge that gap, so he went for another avenue of approach: their families. Sirius was the best candidate for this task, and so Harry quickly put his "uncle" to work as a sympathetic politician who, despite being harassed by the upper ranks of the military, still had enough time to visit the families of veterans and provide them with funds to survive through the growing anarchy.

They were lucky, then, that their cause's war chest was so richly funded—anyone else might've gone broke. Yet, between the Black fortune, the Potter's, the Goblins' substantial investments, and quite a few many other investors providing Harry's cause with the appropriate money, financial soundness was not exactly at the top of their worries.

On the other hand, it was incredibly telling of the many powerful people who wanted in on Harry's vision of a new world. It also said a lot about how many interests Harry had to satisfy to keep these people interested.

One of these investors, in fact, seemed quite mad at him, and was currently storming around Harry's office.

"You swore! You _swore_ nothing would happen to the monarchy!" Joshua was raging. "That was our deal, Harry!"

Harry tracked his friend with his eyes as the man went one way, then another. His hands were clasped on the desk, his expression neutral and serious. "I have not broken the deal, Joshua. The monarchy is still in place," he reminded his friend.

"And the crown?" demanded Joshua as he came to a stop in front of the desk. "Our most sacred symbol, after the throne?"

"I didn't steal the crown," Harry again reminded his friend.

Joshua narrowed his eyes. "You had a hand in it, though, didn't you?" he pressed. "Of course you did. There's no way an operation like that is pulled off without someone in your pocket getting notified."

"You overestimate my reach, Joshua."

"I think I rather underestimate it, actually," Baron Warwick replied sardonically. "Every time Sirius and I have a chat, I keep hearing of new, miraculous events occurring that somehow manage to always swing in your favour. No one's that lucky."

Harry's own gaze narrowed now. "Joshua, tread carefully. You know that I can only divulge what will not compromise the identity of some of our other backers," he pointed out. "Just like I keep the depth of your involvement a secret from my other associates."

"Just tell me this, then. Did you have anything to do with the theft of the Imperial Crown?" Joshua asked point-blank.

Harry stared hard at Joshua for a moment before replying.

"Yes," he replied honestly.

Joshua seemed livid for a moment, but then relented enough to regain control and instead ask, through gritted teeth, "Why?"

"Look outside," Harry said. "What do you see?" he then asked as he watched his friend reluctantly move towards the window.

"Another riot," Joshua said with some disgust. "Why can't we hear them?"

"Magic," Harry replied promptly with a mischievous smile.

"What's your point, Harry?" Joshua asked, a little exasperated.

"That riot is symptomatic of the society we live in, now that magic has come out to light," Harry explained. "It's magnified every problem we had prior to magic's reveal, too. Gas prices have skyrocketed, magical riots have caused wide-spread blackouts…"

"Yes, yes, it's bloody well anarchy out there," Joshua interrupted impatiently. "What's your point?" he pressed again.

Harry gave his friend an annoyed look before relenting. "The point is…I'm accelerating what would have happened anyway," Harry explained. "If I hadn't ordered the robbery, the process would've been slower, more drawn out and traumatic."

"What process? What on earth are you talking about?" Joshua asked, still quite confused.

"At one point or another, someone in the provisional government—probably some high-ranking military officer—would've declared the king unfit and tried to take over," Harry explained. "Most likely, someone unfriendly towards magic users, and in full control of the government. The result of that would be….catastrophic."

Harry got up from his chair and walked towards another window, joining in on watching the developing riot in the street in front of the Ministry of Defence. "Now, though, there is no control. There is no chance of any would-be ruler to take power and immediately impose an anti-mage agenda. The country is splintering, and the king is safely still on the throne as the only legitimizing factor of this power struggle."

"I think you underestimate your opponents, Harry," Joshua opined. "Your enemies are not few, and they are not incapable. There will be resistance."

"Out of all of them, I count only four who are truly a danger," Harry countered. "Generals Taylor, Thompson, Hughes, and Morris."

Joshua's gaze sharpened. "The Chiefs of Staff?" he asked, very well aware of the four men Harry was cautious of. None of them had been the incumbents when the MoD had been attacked, but had essentially negotiated, bribed, and threatened their way up to their respective posts. Each wielded considerable influence, but all were deeply flawed.

Taylor, Joshua knew, was rumoured to be paranoid, believing any officer junior to him to be seeking his place as Chief of the General Staff. Thompson, the Chief of the Air Staff, was arrogant and brutal, and was the most vocal proponent of using troops to put down the riots. Hughes, the First Sea Lord, was far more sanguine, and on the outside seemed the most honourable of the four, but was rumoured to have had the legal successor of the position assassinated to advance himself. Finally, Morris, the sole member of the group that held no official Chief of Staff position, but sat as the Chief of Defence Staff by virtue of being a compromise candidate, though Joshua wasn't so convinced.

Morris was, in the opinion of the entire civil government, the most dangerous of the lot, having a mild manner that was eerily out of place among the other three heads of service. He never seemed troubled, and more than once managed to shoot down Thompson's proposals to use troops to quell the disturbances, but something about him seemed off to Joshua. For one, Thompson was scared of him.

Harry, in turn, nodded at his friend's confirming question. "Yes," he stated. "Taylor has been arguing for the disbandment of the mage troops in the army, but our allies are stalling his efforts. He fears we're the biggest threat to his power," he added with a smile, raising his hand just enough to point a finger at an incoming Molotov cocktail and cause the flames to expand such that it exploded mid-air.

"He's right," Joshua stated blandly, barely flinching now at the sight of Harry's magic at work. "You are."

"Perhaps," Harry conceded. "But to digress back to our point—this is why I need this chaos. Now. Here. Just as the four of them are only starting to consolidate their power."

"Perhaps there is some wisdom to what you say, then," Joshua agreed reluctantly. "But in that case, I would advise you endear yourself to His Majesty."

That caught Harry's attention. Joshua was typically averse to Harry having any sort of contact with the monarch, mostly due to the fear that Harry would do away with him. "I'm listening," he said cautiously.

"If the king sits on the throne, but the servants are incapable of safeguarding his person and possessions, then the natural conclusion is that someone more capable should take over," Joshua analysed. "He whom His Majesty chooses would thus gain the legitimacy of being handpicked by the legitimate sovereign."

"Use the King to suppress the rebellious subjects," Harry mused out loud with a small smile. "I had thought of it, but hadn't given it much serious thought, given my status as a mage. Perhaps you are right, however, and this chaos could be used to advance our agenda more directly, rather than through the shadows as I had planned."

He thumbed his chin pensively as he thought on Joshua's plan. It called for a more direct approach than he was used to, but perhaps that was necessary. His original plan called for a subtle elimination of adverse influences until he could breeze his way into power in the emergency government. However, as Joshua had said, the king could be a majorly beneficial influence on his rise to power.

"The chaos, as you've said, is magnifying our problems, Harry," Joshua continued. "Electricity, water, petrol prices…everything's spiralling out of control, and the people are blaming our enemies. We should take advantage of this by making you the beacon of their hopes. To that end, I propose you relocate to Liverpool, where the crisis is much worse, and work towards stabilizing the area. This should send a clear message to the public that someone _is_ working towards making their lives bearable in this time of chaos."

Harry nodded, becoming convinced of Joshua's arguments but unwilling to vocalize his agreement until he was absolutely certain this was the path to take.

"The capital will need tending to," he remarked idly, voicing his final concern before agreeing. "I cannot manage Liverpool and London at the same time, not with this utter chaos threatening to swallow the country."

Joshua gave a small bow, a little smile finally appearing on his face. "Leave London to Sirius and I," he advised. "Between us, the civil government is on the right track, even if our support within the military is severely limited."

Harry nodded again, finally convinced. "Very well," he conceded, raising a fist to point to Joshua. "I will put in my transfer request for Liverpool as soon as possible, and will leave things here to you. Taylor will no doubt believe this to be a surrender on my part, so he will allow this to happen unopposed. It doesn't affect the others' plans, so they will not interfere, either."

"I understand," Joshua acceded to the order. "Sirius and I will keep order here."

Harry nodded. "Good. Furthermore, contact General Curtis and Major General Livingston," he suggested. "They are our strongest allies in the military."

Joshua raised an eyebrow at the names. "Curtis?" he asked sceptically.

Harry grinned. "Whatever her manners, she's a capable officer, and just as much an enemy of Taylor's as we are." Except, in her case it was deliberate, as she really _was_ trying to depose the older man. "Coordinate with her in order to stem the Chiefs of Staff from completely taking over while I'm away."

Joshua nodded. "I understand," he acquiesced, a little reluctantly.

Harry put a hand on the older man's shoulders, giving him a sincere smile. "Don't look so put out, Joshua," he reassured the older man. "I'm sure you two will get along splendidly."

Joshua's honest grimace made Harry laugh.

* * *

**Bootle, United Kingdom, November 27****th****, 2010…**

As it turned out, Joshua was absolutely correct.

Harry's departure from London was perceived in two ways. The upper echelons of the military who resented him deemed it a surrender of sorts, while the people, fuelled by Sirius and Joshua's underground propaganda campaign, came to see it as the military regime chasing him away. Being a war hero, this naturally drew ire from the populace towards the already resented military regime.

The King, too, was said to sympathize with Harry's plight, which Sirius reported had drawn a lot of concern from certain, more even-minded military officers who had sought Harry's removal.

Harry, however, was now out of their reach. While the capital defence forces would answer to them, the regime's hold on the military grew more tenuous as one drew away from the capital. Thus, Liverpool was practically independent of London control, only kept from outright independence by its traditional allegiance to a central government that was slowly being blinked out of existence. The same scenario was applicable to essentially any of the cities on the fringes of British territory.

However, instead of decaying even more quickly into anarchy, Liverpool was spared from the fate that other cities suffered, such as Leeds and Newcastle, where the rioting had all but dissolved any sense of normalcy. With the presence of the newly returned Liverpudlian regiments and the man the whole nation considered a war hero, order was quickly restored as Harry used the regiments to help the police forces re-establish order.

Not everything was about the use of force, however. Harry took great care in preserving the image of being a faithful servant of the civilian administration.

Only the most wicked amongst the criminals had the soldiers after them. The rest were dealt with accordingly by way of police forces and the military-backed civilian courts.

Furthermore, he had the troops aid in reconstruction efforts wherever the rioting had gotten out of hand, and quickly had the public transport systems working again, which relieved many a person who just wanted to go to work. The streets were cleared of riots, and rule of law reinforced.

However, the woes of the city were not so easily relieved as that. Petrol prices were still through the roof, and food was becoming scarce as the arable regions of England all but ceased functioning or trading. They couldn't rely on London, either, or on imports—given the chaotic state the world was in. Thus, Harry had to take it upon himself to direct the Liverpudlian regiments into the areas surrounding Liverpool and settle things there in order to provide food for his people.

Effectively, thus, Harry controlled Merseyside.

And even then, it wasn't enough. Harry knew that Merseyside alone could not sustain itself indefinitely, and what little they had achieved would all come crumbling down without emergency interference. Thus, Harry turned to his mages.

"You _can't_ be serious."

Harry had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes as one of the local council representatives objected to his emergency plan for food production. Honestly, why did people have to be so short-sighted?

"Sit down," Harry ordered, one of his guardsmen, a veteran of practically every battle Harry had fought in during the Anglo-Spanish War, glowering at the man for additional effect. It worked; within moments, the man was sitting quietly and sullenly. "And I assure you, I'm perfectly serious."

Elicia—his ever faithful, ever adored Elicia—stepped forward then, bringing the council's attention to her. "Having this policy enacted would ensure that we can feed everyone in Merseyside," she informed the gathering. "As it stands, we are barely able to supply enough food for two meals a day. In a matter of months, if not weeks, that will dwindle to a single ration, with total collapse occurring shortly thereafter. This proposal will see to it that your harvests increase by over three hundred per cent!"

Xenophilius, standing to the other side of Harry, nodded in agreement. "We have many agricultural specialists among the registered mages who would be happy to lend their assistance," he added in. "Halton and Wirral have already agreed to our terms, and Knowsley is due to give their answer to us within a matter of days."

The councilmembers for Sefton fidgeted uncomfortably at the pressure the two advisors were putting on them. It wasn't that their facts were wrong, but rather that the solution they were proposing for the alleviation of the food problem was…well…scandalous, to say the least. Using magic to increase the crop yields of their admittedly comparatively small fields was an option many of them refused to consider outright, but as the hunger began settling in, such a stubborn attitude was becoming harder to maintain in the face of potential food riots.

"You must understand," one of the councilmembers pleaded, leaning forward. "The crisis in London, the magic riots…it's all left a very sour taste in the people's mouths regarding the use of magic."

Harry nodded. "I do understand, councilman, and yet that sour taste is quickly being replaced by hunger," he reminded them. "Additionally, these were unregistered mages who brought such pain on us. However, thousands of British lives have been saved by mages on the battlefield-good, loyal mages. We just ask that you allow a few more of these mages to save the lives of our boroughs."

He then glanced up at Xenophilius, who nodded at the council. "Furthermore, we are aware that you've all been having issues regarding robber gangs on the road to Formby and Southport," he mentioned. "As recompense for your tolerance, we will be deploying a company of soldiers to help bolster the local citizen guard, secure the roads, and protect the fields."

It was blackmail of the most terrible sort, but necessary. The people before Harry's delegation knew that the robber gangs were crippling the infrastructure of the region, and just trying to travel from Bootle to Formby was considered dangerous during the night, and at times even during the day. Ice Blundell, between Bootle and Formby, had all but been overrun by the robbers, making that particular stretch a particularly hazardous region to cross.

It was ridiculous, really. In a car, it would take a pitiful amount of time to travel from Bootle to Southport, but the petrol prices had made it necessary for all gasoline to be stockpiled for public transport services. That meant slower vehicles that the robbers could more easily intercept and overrun.

The councilmembers, however, were thankfully not so cunning as to realize that the delegation before them was effectively extorting them for their cooperation. Instead, they merely saw the soldiers as the gift they appeared to be. "T-That would be wonderful!" one of them said, shocked at the offer. "Thank you, General White!"

Harry smiled kindly at the thanks, though he knew that he had just used methods that were anything but honourable. Nonetheless, it was necessary for the stabilization of the North-West, and a good step towards showing the people of the isles that not all mages were out to get them.

"Then can we presume to have your cooperation on this?" he asked, just to make sure. After all, without a clear statement of agreement, the council could back out at any moment. Thankfully, he didn't seem to have to press any further as the councilmembers eyed each other and nodded.

"You have it," confirmed an elderly councilwoman. "Sefton will follow with your recommendation, General White."

Harry gave a gracious nod of thanks as Xenophilius subtly reached into his pocket and turned off the recording device they'd brought along for evidence, should any of the negotiating parties decide to back out at a later date. Elicia, for her part, smiled at the council members and gave a short curtsy.

"The people of Liverpool thank you for your foresight," Harry laid on the praise, knowing that it would stroke the council's egos to think that a city might owe them something. "Very soon, I believe all our food woes shall be over."

Standing from his seat before the council, Harry patted down his uniform to get out the wrinkles that came from sitting as Xenophilius and Elicia moved forward to shake hands with the councilmembers, who were thanking them over and over for the help they would receive against the robber gangs.

He, of course, gave the odd handshake and made small-talk with the councilmembers, who seemed surprised at how approachable he was outside of official negotiations despite his magical background. A good thing, as it reinforced the image that he was as normal as they were, except with magical talents.

Before long, however, Harry and his delegation had left the building, fastening their coats as much as possible against the biting cold of winter. Elicia began trembling almost immediately, but settled once Harry put his arm around her waist. Xenophilius, apparently more at home with such extreme temperature—or very much in control of his reactions—seemed impervious to the cold, not even shaking once as they waited for then got into the government car that was to pick them up.

Once inside, Harry pulled off his gloves and rubbed some warmth into them, smiling as Elicia brought them into her own and helped to bring warmth to both their hands. "That went well," she noted, smiling to herself as she felt the warmth return to her hands and Harry's.

Xenophilius nodded, leaning back against his seat with his eyes closed, glad to finally relax. "With Sefton behind us, Cheshire is sure to fall in line, too," he guessed. "With that, Liverpool's surrounding areas are secure and under our control. We should be able to start expanding our sphere of influence towards Manchester now."

"Isn't that a little hasty?" asked Elicia worriedly. "If you make a move so quickly, the Chiefs of Staff will be a lot more alert about our region."

Harry eyed Xenophilius with a smirk. "She has a point. Rebuttal?"

Xenophilius harrumphed, but then went quiet for a moment as his eyebrows scrunched in thought. "If we can get Curtis to—" he was interrupted mid-thought as the car came to an abrupt stop. Elicia squeaked in surprise.

"What on earth…?" Xenophilius mumbled as he turned to face the driver's compartment, whose separating window was rolling down. "What's the meaning of this?"

The driver seemed a little nonplussed, but the guard beside him was grim-faced and had his jaw set, the tell-tale clicking noise of his sidearm's safety ringing moments later. "Looks like protesters, sir," the driver reported dutifully.

Xenophilius grunted in acknowledgement, though Elicia seemed surprised, while Harry remained stoic. "Protesters? Didn't our troops secure the area before we got here?" she asked, a little alarmed and disappointed that Harry's personal guards had dropped the ball to this extent.

Xenophilius frowned. "They did," Harry confirmed as he pulled out a radio and turned it on. Bringing it to his lips, he pressed down on the talk button. "Thunder-One to Vigil teams, report in, over."

The occupants of the car waited for a moment as static noise filled their ears. Pressing down on the button again, Harry repeated his call, with similar results.

"Sir?" asked the guard, his face failing to mask his growing apprehension.

Harry glared at the radio before tossing it to Xenophilius. "Keep trying," he ordered before turning his attention to Elicia. "Keep your head down, love," he told her, smiling as she nodded back and then leaned in for a comforting kiss.

The moment was soon over, however, and Harry turned to face the driver and guardsman, both of whom were starting to get a bad feeling about the apparent protesters, who hadn't made so much as a shout, thrown a vegetable, or even tried to surround the car. They were simply…standing there. Blocking their path, sure, but just standing there.

"What's your name, trooper?" he asked the driver.

"Ellis, sir."

"Very good, Ellis," he acknowledged as he pulled on a pair of white gloves and tugged them tight against his fingertips. "I want you to keep the engine running. Trooper…"

"Kline, sir."

"Trooper Kline and I," he continued. "Will go investigate. If there's trouble, I want you to back up the car and go straight back to the town council and radio in for reinforcements from Liverpool. If not, we should be right back. Understood?" he asked both men.

"Yes, sir!" the two men chorused, making Harry smile at their eagerness.

"Very good. Trooper Kline, on me," Harry ordered as he moved to get out of the car. He was stopped, however, by Elicia's hold on his arm.

"Be careful," she pleaded.

Harry flashed her a smile. "Always am," he assured her before glancing at Xenophilius and nodding at him.

"Sure you don't need my help?" the older mage asked.

"If something goes wrong, someone with the proper authorization codes will be needed to verify my command for reinforcements, and only two people in this car have them: you and me," Harry reminded him before flashing another smile. "Besides, I need someone I trust to keep Ellie safe."

"You can count on me," Xenophilius assured him.

Harry gave him a grateful nod before looking over to Trooper Kline and nodding at him. "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be, sir," the man answered honestly.

Harry nodded and pulled on the door handle, opening the door, and got out slowly, his hands a mere snap away from incinerating any threats to his person or the car occupants. Still, the apparent protesters made no move against him, or the car. It was all rather strange, in fact.

Harry eyed the crowd as he passed Trooper Kline, who was using the open door as a sort of body armour, and heard his companion slowly close the door and fall into step to his flank.

"What's all this, then?" he called out to the crowd as he tightened the fast of his greatcoat, having a little underestimated the chill outdoors. To his growing apprehension, none of those in the crowd seemed remotely affected by the elements.

Then, a man seemed to emerge from the crowd. It wasn't that he muscled his way through, or the crowd had parted to reveal him. He literally seemed to emerge from the crowd. Harry could hear Trooper Kline flipping his weapon's firing mode from semi to fully automatic. A wise move—if the crowd proved violent, they would need to provide suppressing fire immediately.

"You're Harry Potter," the man responded to Harry's query, which rang all sorts of alarm bells in his mind. Not that his real name was much of a secret now. Rather, it was the way he completely discarded his alternate identity that worried Harry. Muggles would've known better than to treat him as anything but General White. Only mages would have no such restraints.

"Who's asking?" Harry demanded as he made a subtle hand gesture that had Kline separate from him and move closer to cover—the corner of a building.

"_Sir, something's off,_" Kline radioed in through Harry's earpiece. "_Where are all the folks who live around here?_"

Harry was surprised to realize that Kline's observation was spot on. Despite still being in Bootle's residential areas, there didn't seem to be any foot traffic, or even curious faces peering out the windows.

"Don't need to worry about interlopers," the man told Harry with a deranged smile. "They've all been…convinced not to look. Or hear."

"_Sir?_"

Harry understood the man's meaning immediately, however. "Wards. Notice-Me-Not's and Muggle Repelling, correct?" he asked, privately agreeing with Trooper Kline when the man began cursing through the radio. "Must've taken a while to set these up."

The man gave an ugly smile then, reaching into his sleeve and pulling out his wand. "So many questions," the man crooned. "Curious little tosser, aren't you?"

Harry, in turn, offered up a charming smile as he curled his fingers and brought up his hands, ready to incinerate anyone who tried something. "I just want to know who to send your ashes to when I'm done with you."

The man's ugly smile turned into a vicious scowl as he brought up his wand and fired off a shot at Harry, who dodged it expertly and snapped his fingers just as the crowd of mages broke ranks and began firing. "Kline, now!" he shouted.

Immediately, the popping sound of a silenced assault rifle being fired could be dimly heard as numerous mages dropped from expert shots to the chest or head. They were good kills, but not nearly enough to relieve their situation.

"_Sir, moving up to higher ground!_" Kline reported curtly before ceasing his shots and moving inside the building. Harry hoped the man avoided any of the main windows and doors—the wards would probably then knock him out of the fight.

Harry had miscalculated. That was the bottom-line truth of it. He hadn't frankly expected any mage faction to try and off him this early on, given the utter chaos of the refugee problem and their own civil war between the Death Eaters and everyone else. This was, in a word, too reckless.

Or was it? Harry could see the beauty in this ploy, he supposed. Quickly crossing his wrists together—a fancy trick Neville had taught him—he transfigured the concrete road in front of him into a rather nice wall that blocked quite a few nasty spells that would've seen him go through a closed-casket funeral.

Harry could understand the attraction of pulling off a surgical strike at him right now. It was no secret to certain mage parties that he was after them, and while the three-way secret war between the Ministry, Death Eaters, and Order of the Phoenix was still going on quite strongly, the Ministry was about to fold up entirely, leaving only the latter two factions standing and able to marshal all their forces for one last strike.

That meant that someone had already seen the endgame, or calculated it, and was now seeking to eliminate the next massive threat practically a year or two in advance of said conclusion. That way, whoever came out victor of the mage civil war would have no big problem waiting for them.

That said, Harry didn't think he knew anyone this insane. If the attack failed—and he was going to do his bloody best to see it fail—then it gave them a steel-clad reason to go to war with the mages.

Although…Harry had to admit the odds of him using it were still quite slim. He was nowhere near ready to take on the mages—he hadn't even managed to take care of the Chiefs of Staff yet!—and perhaps that was why the attack came this prematurely. Whoever the head planner was had realized that even if they handed over a _cassus belli_ on a diamond platter, he could not act on it.

Bottom line, he needed information.

Harry dove to the side as the wall finally broke and snapped his fingers again, lighting up quite a few mages with his fire spells. Though diminished, he could still see a few mages here and there going down from Kline's persistent firing. Unfortunately, they were still quite outnumbered.

"_Sir, I'm going to be running out of ammo very, very soon,_" he heard Kline report in. "_Suggest we fall back to the town council and make our stand there._"

"And bring this firefight to their doorstep?" Harry questioned dubiously. "They'll think we've lost control of the situation. No," he emphasized with a shake of his head. "We make our stand here."

"…_Copy that, sir._" Kline was reluctant, but willing to follow him. That said quite a bit of the man's character.

Harry took cover behind the cornerstones of one of the buildings lining the street and pondered using Fiendfyre to eradicate the problem once and for all. He quickly discarded that idea on the grounds of the fact that it would probably take the entire street with it.

No, the wisest thing they could do was hold out until reinforcements arrived from Liverpool, which shouldn't take more than another fifteen minutes.

He heard Kline curse then, and worried his sole ally had been taken down. "Kline, report in!"

"…_I'm fine, sir! Nearly got hit in the gob by one of those blighted Killing Curses, though!_"

That would do it, in Harry's opinion. It also told him that the enemy was really foregoing the pulling of any punches in dealing with him. They wanted him dead, not caught. He'd have to tip his hat to whoever it was that planned this op—it was quite brutal and vicious.

Then, the spell fire stopped as suddenly as it'd begun. Still taking cover in his corner, he heard the popping sound of Kline's rifle for a handful of seconds more before it, too, stopped firing.

"Come out, Potter!" the man he'd chatted with earlier called out. Harry was surprised the man hadn't died in the brief firefight they'd gone through. "Or are you too much of a coward to face us like a man?"

He heard Kline snort. "…_Big words coming from a guy who brings an army to a fistfight,_" the trooper mumbled, probably unaware of the fact that Harry could hear him. Still, it made him smile in amusement.

"How about you tell me who sent you, and I oblige?" Harry asked, trying to buy himself some time so he could come up with a functional plan for his current predicament. "I think that's only fair, given your unhealthy drive to kill me!"

There was no way that would work. No one was stupid enough to start gloating before the mission was complete.

"Commander Weasley ordered your death, Potter," sneered the man. "Now come out and fight!"

Harry's eyebrows shot upwards as the man spilled his boss' identity so cavalierly. Was the man stupid, or just new at this? Even if it were the latter, surely someone would've told him not to give out such sensitive information?

"…_I can't believe that worked,_" Kline mumbled into his microphone disbelievingly.

"Neither can I," Harry agreed before finally coming up with an endgame plan. Bottom line, he needed those mages gone, and with only Kline as his backup, that didn't leave for very many options. "Kline, how're you on grenades?"

"_Full load, sir._"

"So five," Harry mumbled to himself. Idly, he cast a spell on the opposing wall of the alley he was in, turning the brick and mortar into reflecting glass, giving him a clear view of the group of mages. "Okay, here's the plan: When I give the signal, throw those grenades smack in the middle of the group, understood?"

"_Sir, won't they just bounce off the shields?"_

"Not if they've got something else holding their attention," Harry assured the trooper. He'd have to remember to give the man a commendation later for his assistance in this fight. "Ready?"

There was a pause before the radio clicked on again. "_Ready, sir._"

Drawing in deep breaths, Harry tried to get his heart to stop racing before he made his move. Once he was comfortable—and still ignoring the lead mage's taunts—he closed his eyes, gathered what magic he needed, and readied his spells. Then, just as suddenly as a person being shaken awake, he burst from his position and dashed across the street, one hand extended towards the group, a snap already sounding out.

Almost instantly, the floor in front of the group buckled and collapsed as fire burst from it, incinerating many of them and putting the rest in a panic. The result was erratic, but no less dangerous spell fire that tested Harry's defensive spells and dodging ability. As good as he was, and as powerful as he was, having over thirty spells slam into one's personal shield could be draining.

Still, he had their attention. Harry gave a vicious smile as he crossed his wrists and transfigured a wall to protect him. "Kline, NOW!" he ordered.

It wasn't instantaneous, but the effects of Harry's plan were apparent the moment the first grenade landed in a hard thud amidst the mages. Such was the haze of their panic that most of them had ignored the sound until it was too late, and as such, many of the shield-bearing mages were instantly killed in the resulting explosion, with many more dying from the subsequent grenades that Kline lobbed in to take advantage of the chaos.

Harry waited for the fifth explosion to go off before even ducking out his head to have a look. The moment it did, he collapsed the wall and charge in to finish off his attackers, each snap of his fingers heralding another mage spontaneously combusting.

"_Providing covering fire!"_ Kline reported in from his perch above the street.

Harry saw many of the bodies suddenly spasm as bullets hit them while on the ground, but paid these no heed. He had only one target in mind, and he thanked his lucky stars that his prey hadn't died in the grenade volley.

The man who'd taunted him was slowly standing up, his expression clearly dazed but equally furious. He was about to throw back his head and howl in said rage when Harry suddenly appeared in front of him and, with one swift strike, grabbed him by the throat and slammed him on the ground, keeping his free fingers ready for a snap and a knee on the man's chest.

"Kline, clean-up duty," he ordered over the radio, his eyes fixed on the fallen mage beneath him. "Once you're done keep an eye out for mage reinforcements."

"_Aye, sir._"

The radio clicked off, and Harry was left with his prisoner, his features contorted with anger both at the fact that he had failed to predict this ambush and that his plans had very nearly been derailed. "You said Commander Weasley sent you," he reminded his prisoner as he pushed down on the man's chest with his knee. "Which one?"

The man, despite his injuries, gave Harry a vicious, insane grin. "I'll never tell," he taunted. Harry glowered at him.

"Do you know what it feels like to be set on fire?" Harry asked him. "The pain is extraordinary, and most people get to die by smoke inhalation rather than the fire itself."

"S-So?" the mage demanded defiantly.

Harry leaned in, making sure the man could see that he wasn't kidding around. "You won't get that mercy," he threatened. "You'll burn good and well, feeling every _second_ my magic turns you into ash. And it won't be fast, either. I'll make sure of that. _Unless_ you tell me who sent you, specifically," he told the mage.

The mage's eyes cleared themselves a little of the insanity they had shown before, replaced instead with doubt and fear as he realized Harry would make good on his threat. Being burned alive was no pleasant scenario to ponder.

"C-Commander Weasley, like I told you," he finally gave in, though all this did was have Harry squeeze his neck tighter with one hand, while his other hand readied a snap. "I-I'm not lying!" the man managed to choke out.

"_Which. One_?" Harry repeated slowly. He already had a good idea, but he wanted confirmation.

"D-Don't….know…!" the mage wheezed as air became quite scarce in his lungs.

Harry scowled. Was the man telling the truth? It seemed unlikely—after all, he had provided a rank and family name, so why wouldn't he know who sent him? "You're lying," he decided to accuse the man point blank, just to see if his reaction changed.

It didn't, to Harry's displeased surprise. If anything, it made the man even more desperate. "Please…I…I'm te—telling the t-truth!" the man pleaded. "No name! No person! Just…a signed o-order…in a sealed…" he swallowed desperately. "…envelope!"

Harry's eyes narrowed as he pondered this information. It made things difficult for him, but he could already see how this move was wise. By signing the letter, it ensured Harry was focused on a Weasley, but by not specifying which one, he had no way of knowing which of the seven siblings was the true threat. He had his suspicions, however, that the youngest of them was perhaps responsible for the attack—she was the only one, out of the entire family, who seemed to fit the profile.

However, he had no concrete proof, and that made things problematic. Any good intelligence officer would mention that the signature could easily have been forged, or that this was a ploy to distract him from dealing with the Chiefs of Staff. Whatever sort of ploy it was, however, it was clear that the stakes had risen yet again. If he could not find out who it was that ordered the hit, then he'd have to keep looking over his shoulder—that was unacceptable.

He eyed the captured mage in his grip for a moment, pondering his fate, before he let him go—to the man's relief. However, the moment the man was about to speak, Harry got up and snapped his fingers at him, incinerating the man in seconds.

Ignoring the flash of heat behind him, Harry moved his gaze across the small-scale battlefield. This had been an annoying interlude, but it had been quite informative, in its own way. He would have to step up his campaign against the Chiefs of Staff, it seemed, or else he might not live long enough to seize what was rightfully his.

"Kline, please fetch the others now, if you would," Harry ordered abruptly, his arms crossed as he continued observing the strewn bodies around him. He barely batted an eye at the amount of people he'd killed—a fact that gave him a jolt of worry as to his rapidly evolving jadedness towards the act. Perhaps he'd been in the game too long?

Well, even if he was, he needed to see this through to the bitter end. A man who gave up on his ambitions because of a little unease could not claim to be anyone worth following.

Kline, naturally, was a little hesitant to comply with his order, given that he was Harry's sole backup. "Sir, with all due respect, I believe my place is here," he protested. "I'd much rather not—"

"I'll be fine," Harry cut him off as he remained still, his arms crossed and his gaze on the scene of carnage. "The wards these idiots put up will last a while longer, too, so there shouldn't be much trouble."

Kline hesitated some more, clearly uneasy with leaving the commander of their forces on his own. Nonetheless, he was a veteran of Spain, and he knew how utterly terrifying the man before him could be when unleashed. He hadn't personally attended any of the major sieges, but he had enough friends who had, and their tales of entire areas of the city burning uncontrollably was enough to fuel his nightmares.

"Yes, sir!" he finally complied, saluting Harry before jogging off towards the city council, finally leaving Harry alone among the corpses.

For a moment, Harry did nothing but stand there, still with his arms crossed and his expression pensive. He could feel the cold winter breeze around him, and yet perhaps as a result of the amount of magic he'd channelled, he felt none of the cold.

"You're late," he suddenly said. "Or is it that you were watching?"

"A little of both," a male voice said as a dozen figures suddenly appeared in a wash of magical energy. "We got here just as you finished off the last of them."

Harry was quiet for a while. "Dumbledore's faction is becoming a nuisance, as are the Death Eaters. We cannot afford these factions to come between us and the Chiefs of Staff," he stated simply. "You heard about their leader?" he asked for confirmation.

"Yes. Weasley."

"Assume Ronald, but keep an eye on the one they call Ginny," Harry stated. "I have a feeling that her hand can't be too uninvolved in this attempt."

"She was just a middle-level Auror when I left."

"Time's passed," Harry stated, staring at the bodies strewn around him. "People change. She's very much unlike any other mage I've dealt with from that camp. Don't underestimate her," he warned.

There was a pause and a nod. "Very well. Then…?"

Harry raised a hand and poked his right temple with his index finger. "My head is starting to ache, Neville."

* * *

**Liverpool, United Kingdom, December 5****th****, 2010…**

"_B Section in position._"

Harry's revenge was to be swift and brutal. The attack on his person had been inexcusably surprising, and the leader of the Military Mages knew full well that if it leaked out how off guard he'd been caught, his reputation would suffer tremendously for it. As such, it was necessary for him to cow the mages back into focusing on the little civil war.

The extent of his vengeance had been debated vociferously since the moment it had been announced. Some among his staff wanted him to make an example of the mages on a large scale, while others—headed by Elicia, Sirius, and Joshua—felt that a quick, surgical strike was enough to show the mages that Harry wasn't screwing around.

In the end, Harry had been swayed by the latter's arguments, but not without injecting into that solution a good deal of bloody-minded viciousness.

It had taken some small amount of time since then to acquire the necessary information, but once he'd come into it, Harry had unleashed Neville, knowing that the rising star among the Military Mages would see to it that his will be carried out to the fullest extent possible of his orders.

The target was, naturally, an Order of the Phoenix stronghold.

Neville crouched behind a short garden wall in front of the inconspicuous house across the street that served as the regional safehouse of the Order of the Phoenix, his team similarly crouched to either of his sides. In a few moments, it would serve this purpose no longer.

Neville raised his hand to his communicator and tapped it once lightly. "Delta section in position," he reported in. "Alright, everyone knows the drill. No holdups, no hesitation—shoot to kill."

Grunts of confirmations answered his directive, making Neville go for his communicator again. "This is A Section-Lead; all units in position. Initiate warding on my mark."

"_Copy that, A Section-Lead. Warding to commence on your mark._"

Neville glanced to his sides at the men following him into battle and reached out with one hand to his right. "Scope," he ordered.

Immediately, a collapsible periscope was give to him and he raised it just above the wall to scout out the area. So far, no activity had been seen from the house—but then that had been expected. Magical safe houses were a notable oddity in the magical world due precisely to the fact that they were sorely lacking in magical wards—it was the only way to hide it in plain sight. On the other hand, high-end safe houses, like the one his family had during the war against Voldemort, typically became hidden due to the sheer amount of magic poured into it. Both ways were valid, especially since the first one meant it was a lot harder to find the safe houses.

"Anything?" asked a Corporal at his side.

"Nothing yet," Neville replied as he scanned the face of the house for any signs of alertness. "I think we're clear," he added as he withdrew the periscope and went for his ear bud. "This is A-Section Lead to Wards; Mission is a go. Do your thing, lads."

"_Roger that, A-Section Lead. Warding commencing._"

Neville sat back and waited, counting up till ten, until he felt the wash of magical energy hit him. The Anti-Disapparation and Anti-Portkey wards had slammed into place. "They're up!" he called out. "Move, move, move!"

With practised fluidity, the members of Neville's section jumped the short garden wall and rushed the house, their weapons all aimed at the windows and doors in the event of suppressing fire. Just as they boots hit the pavement of the road, however, the side of the house exploded right around where the chimney had been.

"_Charlie-Two-Four, reporting in; chimney has been destroyed._"

"_Charlie-Two-Lead moving in._"

"_Copy that, Charlie-Two-Lead, Fireteam Delta approaching rear door. No hostiles encountered._"

Neville smiled grimly as he led his section towards the front of the house. "Fireteam Delta, on point. Fireteam Charlie, covering fire if necessary," he ordered. The two fireteam leaders in his section nodded as they jogged past him with their men and took their assigned positions.

That was when the first sounds of gunfire and spell explosions rang out.

"Charlie-Two-Lead, report in_,_" Neville ordered. "Status."

"_Hostiles encountered! Engaging!_"

Neville looked back at his fireteam leaders and nodded. "Breach!"

The leader of Fireteam Delta nodded and took a few steps back from the door before taking a running start and kicking it in, assault rifle raised and firing the moment the soldier had eyes on a hostile target. He was soon followed in by a steady stream of his companions, all of them spreading throughout the house like the efficient predators they were trained to be.

Neville came in last, his steps into the house slow and deliberate as he listened to the gunfire and screams coming from every corner of the house. He absently kicked aside a fallen wand, its owner stuck in a perpetual expression of shocked despair as she lay in a pool of her own blood.

It was a scene mirrored throughout the house as the British soldiers eradicated every living thing in it, showing an atypical lack of mercy even when begged to. Within moments, the soldiers had completed their mission, and were simply keeping watch in the various rooms for unexpected arrivals or survivors.

The leader of Fireteam Charlie of B Section was waiting for him at the foot of the staircase leading up to the next level. The man pulled up his snow-white balaclava before throwing up a salute. "Sir, all hostiles eliminated," he reported monotonously.

Neville observed the room around him—most of it had been destroyed by the RPG that B Section had shot at the chimney to prevent anyone escaping by way of Floo. "How many?" he asked.

"Altogether, two dozen mages," the man reported. "Most were on the second level—my men caught them waking up to the firefight."

Neville nodded. "Sounds about right," he said, comparing that figure with the one their intelligence had provided. He then clapped a hand on the man's shoulder in praise. "Good work, Sergeant."

"Sir!"

Neville sighed as he heard the call from one of the men at the front door. "And here comes part two," he mumbled to himself before turning around. "How many, soldier?"

"Fifteen and counting, sir! Just beyond the wards!" the soldier reported.

Neville swept out his arm. "Defensive positions!" he ordered with a shout. "Repel the mage reinforcements!"

Almost immediately, the house shook as the first of many similar offensive spells hit the abode. Interspersed with shouting and returning gunfire, the house became a scene of organized chaos as the soldiers moved from window to breach, to door, to window, and back to breach, returning fire with increasing numbers of mages as these tried to retake their safehouse, possibly under the assumption that their comrades might have been taken prisoner.

Among his men, Neville was not idle in the defence either. Moving from defender to defender, he used his magic to transfigure the ground or random objects into solid cover for his subordinates.

Neville instinctively ducked as he heard an explosion outside, and upon checking with his men, realized that the RPG team had managed to hit a group of overconfident mages successfully.

"Contacts rear!" he heard one of the defenders shout out in warning from the kitchen at the back. "Looks like twenty of them!"

"They're not fucking around, it seems," observed a nearby soldier grimly.

"They rarely do," Neville panned before absorbing the information and trying to plot out the best course of action, as Harry had instructed him to practice doing. The truth was, they were surrounded on all sides by incoming, determined opponents; his one trump card was that they seemed unaware of the fate of the inhabitants of the safehouse, so they weren't going all out. Perhaps it was time to use that to his advantage.

"Signal the warders to drop the anti-Disapparating ward," he ordered a soldier near the window. "Immediately."

"Sir?" questioned the sergeant from his fireteam.

Neville's hands lit up then, the magical energy coursing through his body and taking material shape as it accumulated at his appendages. While he was still nowhere near the level of ease with which Harry could wield powerful magic wandlessly, he was quickly catching up, and now was the time to show why he was Harry's right hand.

"Time to end this farce," he stated grimly, his expression stony and determined. "Signal the warders. Now," he repeated.

With a reluctant nod from the sergeant to encourage him, the soldier at the window dropped his assault rifle and pulled out a flare gun, aimed it through the window at the sky, and fired it, launching forth a blazing red signal flare that soared into the evening sky.

Neville kept his attention not on the flare, though, but the mages that were assaulting the house, all of whom remained outside of the ward limits. Good—as long as they didn't cross that threshold, they would have no idea the wards had come down, giving Neville the advantage of surprise.

The moment he felt the wash of magic again, Neville knew it was time.

With a grunt and a thought, he popped out of existence, reappearing on top of the house, well outside the current field of vision of the attacking mages. Well, that was sort-of false. That any of them could easily see him went without question, but none of them was thinking of looking that high up, seeing as all the British defenders seemed to be focused on the first and second floors, and not an inch higher. Any whose eyes went a little higher were typically shot in the head by the British defenders for their lax guard.

As such, Neville reappeared atop the house without any resistance, his reappearance as silent as Apparation could possibly get, and was rewarded with a clear view of the raging battlefield around the house. He was thankful that none of the nearby residences were populated anymore, or else this would've been far more complicated than he'd have liked. As it stood, anyone in the outskirts of the city had pretty much moved towards the centre, where Harry's power was strongest. That was actually a factor in finding the safehouse to begin with—had it been placed deeper in Liverpool, they would've gone incognito for quite a while longer.

His unencumbered view made Neville smile in anticipation as he felt his magic course through his being, his hands extended at his sides as he prepared to write himself into the history books. When people spoke of Harry Potter's rise, they would in the same breath refer to him as the instrument of that rise.

Unfortunately, this wasn't one of those spells he could cast with a thought, and so Neville resorted to chanting the spell under his breath raising his hands to aim at the two groups that were advancing on the safe house, unaware of the doom that was about to be unleashed on them.

When he finished, Neville smiled viciously to himself, sweat starting to accumulate at his brow at the exertion his body was going through getting the impressive spell ready to fire. "My master's head is aching," he said, reminiscing of the comment Harry had made after the ambush that had sparked this mission. "And here's the relief."

With a guttural howl, he let loose the magic from his hands, two blasts of green magic racing towards the ground in front of the attacking mages like meteors, catching them completely off guard. To their increasing surprise, nothing seemed to happen as the ground seemingly absorbed the magic, but now they were alerted to his presence on the roof and a couple of adventurous mages began firing at him, despite the suppressing fire from the house.

That ended moments later.

Earthen arms shot out from the ground and grabbed the mages by the legs, dragging many of them into the ground below or having their appendage torn clean off as earthen golems dug themselves out from the ground as though zombies straight out from a horror movie.

Cheers exploded from the house as the British defenders watched the earthen golems begin to rip through the mage offensive, quickly overwhelming the attackers with sheer weight of numbers. For every golem that fell to a spell-and they were quite easy to bring down, apparently-two more rushed forward to fill the gap, and it seemed that the terror wrought by the sudden onslaught had overriden the mages' logical recourse of Apparating away or using Portkeys, as neither of the groups were within the supposed range of the British wards.

The mages weren't all bad, however. Even as most of them fell to the golems, there seemed to be quite a few that managed to hold their own, apparently fighting to save as many of their comrades as they could. Nonetheless, Neville wasn't about to stand for that sort of thing, as he needed this operation done with quickly. Thus, he Disapparated from the rooftop and reappeared within the melee, quickly popping in and out of existence behind, in front, or even just to the side of a particularly dangerous mage and plunging a combat knife into their bodies at some particularly lethal spot.

Except for one case.

As he reached the end of his self-assigned kill list, he came across a mage that seemed unwilling to go down easily, blocking one of his attempted stabs after another with a mixture of both amazing reflexes and quickly-summoned shield spells. It was quite impressive, truth be told, and Neville couldn't help but wonder who this mage was.

Until they finally managed to get into a deadlock and he got a good look at his face.

Neville grinned viciously. "Colin," he greeted.

The once-jovial Griffindor gave his erstwhile House companion a neutral, stony look. "Longbottom."

"I guess that answers the riddle of which Weasley, eh?" Neville noted before exerting some pressure and pushing himself away from the deadlock, sending a mental signal for the golems to rush Colin. To his utter lack of surprise now, Colin quickly dispatched the four that had complied with Neville's order in a sublime feat of magical prowess. "Only Ginny could ever order you around like this."

Colin ignored the comment, preferring to remain in a ready position, his wand at the ready. "I always thought the rumors of your demise were grossly exaggerated," he pointed out instead. "That op was too clean. Too perfect. Didn't think you'd work for Potter, though."

Neville smiled in self-assurance, also ready to renew his attacks. "The pay's good," he jibed. "And the benefits are amazing. Honestly, could you imagine Dumbledore ever giving you a good dental plan? _Nevermind _the Ministry!"

Colin made the first move, then. With an elegant, quick move of his wand, a rather fierce spell rushed at Neville, who smartly knew to dodge it by a slight movement of his torso and then launched himself at Colin, who had quickly grasped Neville's tactics and emulated them by popping out of existence and reappearing right behind the brown-haired commander.

Neville wasn't fazed, however, and merely smiled over his shoulder as he glimpsed Colin ready to fire a spell, the energy practically buzzing to life at the tip of his wand. "You know the problem with copying someone's move?" he asked with an excited smile.

Just as Colin fired the spell, Neville disappeared, prompting Colin to turn around and getting ready to kill his opponent. Only, Neville never showed up. Instead, Colin felt a hand being placed flat on the small of his back, and knew he'd miscalculated.

"You're never as good as the original," Neville finished. "Give your brother my regards."

"I will."

Neville barely had time to blink and spin to the side as a green jet of magic rushed past him and hit Colin. However, instead of crumbling to the ground dead-like, Colin's image fizzled out and was replaced by one of the mages who'd been previously killed in the initial advance.

Neville blinked in stupefaction at how close he'd come to dying, tricked as he was by the ingenious move from Colin. Ruthless, too, but then who was he to judge?

"Nice move," he praised as he kept his eyes trained on the genuine Colin Creevey, who was standing mere feet away from where Neville had been standing.

"I'm not so stupid as to fight you on even ground," Colin noted. "Not after you raised those golems."

"Smart man," Neville noted with a genuinely respectful smirk. "Too bad your comrades didn't think like that."

Colin braved a glance around him, only to see that Neville had been dead on with his commentary. As golems slowly advanced on him, Colin realized that he was the last mand standing from the assault on the safe house-a humiliating defeat, to be sure.

"Game over, Creevey," Neville stated calmly as he got up from his kneeling position and patted his pants down, a little irritated by all the dirt and blood he'd gotten onto them. "Surrender now and I promise you I'll vouch for you before Harry," he offered Colin as he straightened up. By now, even a couple of British soldiers had come out and had their assault rifles aimed at Colin's head.

Colin glanced at his surrounding enemies and gave Neville a defiant look. "And what? Join you?" he demanded. "I'd rather join my friends in death."

Neville sighed-for once actually regretting having to carry out Harry's order to the letter. Colin would've made a fine addition to the ranks. "Pity that," he panned before looking at the soldiers. "Shoot him."

Before they could, however, a black blur appeared amongst them, right in front of Colin, and Neville had only a fraction of a second to recognize the blur before it grabbed onto Colin and just as quickly disappeared, Colin in tow.

Left staring at the empty space in the cordon of British soldiers and golems, Neville smacked a hand to his face in exasperation. "Bloody hell," he muttered in frustration. "Harry's going to hate this."

Still, on the other hand, the mission had been largely a success-though this turn of events meant that their timeframe had shortened by quite a bit. Extending an arm towards one of the soldiers, Neville was quick to follow up with orders. "Get the message laid out inside the safe house," he ordered. "Have the troops then assemble for immediate extraction. We've got maybe fifteen minutes before a larger assault force gets here, so double time it, soldier!"

Realizing the urgency of the orders, the soldier gave the most curt of salutes before dashing back inside the house, where the subsequent din of activity began to sound out. The other soldier, not exactly designated to hurry, joined the rest inside the house at a trot, leaving Neville with his animated golems.

Neville's attention wasn't on the golems, however, but rather on his performance during the battle. Summoning the golems had taken quite a bit of exertion, concentration, and chanting, all of which had combined for a pretty abysmal lag time in terms of repeat usability in pitched combat. Harry, he knew, could summon the most dangerous of spells with but a snap of his fingers-fire spells being only part of the warlord's rather impressive knowledge of offensive spells.

His eyes fell on his left hand, which then tightened into a fist as his frustration threatened to get the best of him. He was still not good enough. As powerful as he was now, he was still walking in Harry's shadow, and that was unacceptable. While he did not envy the man's ambition for absolute power, Neville hated being made into a footnote. He would carve his place in the history books one day, cementing his position as the most powerful and dangerous military mage in Harry's army.

Then, and only then would he be satisfied.

* * *

**Manchester, United Kingdom, December 20****th****, 2010…**

Actions have consequences.

It is the eternal, ironclad law of the universe that governs all history, all evolution. It has its good incarnations and bad incarnations.

Harry's vengeance on the Order of the Phoenix was no exception.

Within five days of the strike against the Order safe house, the central government in London lost all control of Manchester as panicked anti-magic fanatics, spooked by the devastation Neville had unleashed and the ambush that had sparked the strike, seized control of the government buildings and all but chased out any armed support for London.

A day later, word filtered through that Leeds and Sheffield had similarly broken off from the central authority, followed a day later by Exeter down south and Cardiff, where the rioting that chased out the central authority had apparently been extraordinarily violent.

Of course, none of this sat very well with the Chiefs of Staff, who saw this as a direct attack on their power, regents or not for the legitimate civilian government. Thus, their retaliatory strikes against the southern rebellions were quick and decisive, and within forty-eight hours of their start, Cardiff and Exeter had been regained.

The north, however, was proving a more harrowing task. With their control on the fringes of Britain severely diminished—almost nonexistent as one crossed into Scotland—the Chiefs of Staff were unable to quell the uprisings in Leeds and Manchester, and had to resort to the one option they truly, veritably despised.

They ordered Harry Potter to do it.

Thus it was that on December 20th, merely ten days after the uprisings had begun, the forces under the command of Harry Potter, dubbed Northern Command, rolled over to Manchester on the backs of tanks and at the sound of jackboots hitting concrete.

"I still can't believe they actually tipped you for this operation."

Harry put down his binoculars to give an amused smile at his companion atop the military Humvee they'd procured for their transportation. "Such little faith, Speirs," he commented with a chuckle before raising his binoculars back up and staring at the smoking city of Manchester. His troops had done well to surround the city's main access points, and even as the tanks rolled up the main highway, he knew this operation, if he carried it out quickly and successfully, would further play into his agenda.

"Seriously," Speirs insisted as he lit up a cigarette and breathed in the nicotine deeply. "Couldn't they have just sent one of their cronies, even if just as a titular head?"

"Not likely," Harry pointed out, observing the scurrying of the rebel forces as they dug in for the impending assault. "The Chiefs of Staff are on thin ice as it is, and they damn well know it. Manchester, Leeds, Exeter…this is their worst nightmare come true, especially since it's on the fringes of the country."

"Scotland's farther."

"Scotland's a lost cause, and anyone with a brain knows it," Harry retorted before addressing an orderly standing next to the Humvee. "Six defensive positions on the main highway approach. Mark targets for future bombardment."

"Seven. Missed the one on the rooftop of the left brick building," Speirs corrected.

"Seven," Harry agreed after a pause, confirming Speirs' observation. He briefly put down the glasses to give his companion a pleased smile. "Nice catch."

"I don't wear these for nothing, you know," Speirs answered wryly as he tapped his Lieutenant General's insignia.

"Seven positions," the orderly confirmed. "Targets marked."

"Status on detached forces," Harry ordered.

The orderly held up a hand for a moment as he relayed the order, leaving the two men in silence as they waited…until Harry spoke up again.

"Scotland's become the playground of the mage factions," he informed Speirs. "Checked the news lately? Thousands of refugees crossing the Glasgow-Edinburgh line every day."

"It's a damn disgrace, is what it is," Speirs opined with a grunt, pulling his large overcoat tighter against the cold. "And you won't act against them," he half-heartedly accused.

"With what?" Harry challenged patiently. "And to what end? So we can lose and let the Chiefs of Staff swallow everything we've worked to achieve?" he asked. "It's not just about numbers, Speirs, or equipment. It's about support, logistics, and power. We've got the former two, but not the rest. We march into Scotland right now? They'd bunker down in that valley of theirs so hard the siege to take it would take years. _Years_," he repeated for effect. "You know we don't have the supply base for that sort of massive operation."

"So instead of breaking mage skulls, we're pointing our guns at our own," Speirs muttered a little resentfully, motioning towards the burning city of Manchester. Even in the absurd cold of Northern English winter, the fires in some of the city's quarters were still burning strong.

Harry gave an understanding, sad smile. "It's unfortunate, but it's what we've got to do," he said before the orderly caught his eye. "Go on."

The orderly saluted before giving his report, his breath visible due to the cold. "All fronts report full readiness, sir," the orderly stated. "The military mages want to know where to deploy to."

Harry shared a glance with Speirs before shaking his head. "Military mages to stand down," he ordered. "Only Wenshi's strike group is to take position, as planned," he added. "No sense leveling one of our own cities if we can avoid it."

"Yes, sir!"

The two generals fell back into comfortable silence for a moment, before Speirs decided he couldn't take it anymore. "It's a good plan," he commented. "Quick, simple…minimal killing."

"Let's hope it stays that way," Harry replied with a grim look as he raised his binoculars. "Plans have a way of falling apart rather quickly." He fell silent again for a minute before nodding to himself. "Give the order."

Speirs gave a firm nod and brought up his radio transmitter. "This is General Speirs to all units: Operation Anvil is a go!"

* * *

**Leeds, United Kingdom, December 24****th****, 2010…**

It was Christmas Eve, and the North was all but under the command of Harry Potter.

Operation Anvil, the plan to retake Manchester in a military blitz on the rebel headquarters and city utilities, had been a resounding success, seeing the strike team under the command of Neville Longbottom, codenamed Wenshi, successfully Portkey right in the midst of the City Council, successfully capturing the entire rebel leadership in one swift stroke.

Wracked by the chaos of an absent leadership, the defensive positions had quickly fallen to the British regulars as they moved quickly to retake the city, achieving this goal in record time as they spread every which way like a raging river. By the time the whole operation had concluded, only five British servicemen had died, with two of these being due to tripping an improvised explosive device at one of the power plants.

By comparison, the rebel forces had sustained severe casualties, losing about five hundred armed militia who had refused to budge from their positions. Impressed by their courage, the British forces saw to it that their bodies were retrieved and given to their families for burial.

The rebel leadership, however, was not so lucky.

Enraged by the two-fold humiliation of having lost control of the North _and_ having been forced to ask Harry Potter to deal with it, the Chiefs of Staff had decreed the death penalty for all of the rebel leaders against the protests of the Houses of Parliament. Sirius and Joshua, in particular, had been vocal about their disagreement, but all that had achieved was a swift dismissal from the Chiefs of Staff.

Leeds was next, and fell just as quickly before the innovative tactics of the Mage General.

This time deploying several strike teams based on the same model as the one Neville had led in Manchester, Operation Hammer succeeded beyond everyone's wildest expectations when it was reported that no casualties had been sustained vis-à-vis the loss of twenty rebels and the capture of their leadership. The rest, upon hearing of the devastating strike, surrendered quickly.

Again, the Chiefs ordered the deaths of all captured rebels, and again Sirius and Joshua protested on Harry's "behalf." Still, they were dismissed out of hand, calling Harry and his supporters too soft.

Again, they had played into Harry's hands.

Helped along by Sirius and Joshua, leaks began to sprout regarding the Chiefs of Staff's brutal behavior towards prisoners of war, garnering public outrage. As details of the Chiefs of Staff's orders to execute the leadership without due trial emerged, riots intensified across the country, weakening their already tenuous grasp on the country's stability.

"Five more cities have broken off ties to London today," Xenophilius reported as he stood, clutching an electronic pad with the pertinent information displayed, before his assembled audience. "Norwich, Stoke, Birmingham, Luton, and Milton," he elaborated before tapping a few times on his new toy. "Plus an additional thirteen smaller settlements. All in all, London's effective control of the country has decayed to about forty percent."

"Just in time for Christmas," Speirs noted dryly as he downed a shot of hard liquor.

"Heck, it's even less if you realize they only control the north because of us," Neville pointed out, his feet tapping the floor rapidly. "The Chiefs are done."

"It wouldn't do well for us to underestimate them," Xeno pointed out. "Even bloodied, they still command the loyalty of thousands of troops, and they're not idiots by any means in terms of warfare. Exeter was proof of that."

"They still lost it again, though," General Curtis, who had flown in from London, reminded the mage. "That gutless worm Taylor loses his temper too easily, and Thompson isn't much better," she opined. "It'd be a matter of pushing their buttons to get them to lose whatever skill they have."

"Hughes has the fleet, though—he could pose a problem," Alfred Hughes, Harry's old intelligence adjutant from the Anglo-Spanish War, brought up. "Unless we've managed to convince enough in the Admiralty to stand with us?"

Xeno shook his head. "Only the Northerners have shown any semblance of agreement. Not enough to go toe-to-toe with the Navy."

He was about to continue speaking when a knock interrupted him, causing all eyes to go towards the door of the old City Council conference room. "Come in," Xeno said.

Perfectly professional, a young woman in uniform came in and handed Xeno a small slip of paper before saluting Speirs, Curtis, Hughes, and Harry, the last of whom had been quietly listening to the discussion at the head of the table. "Sirs," she greeted.

Speirs and Hughes gave sloppy salutes back, while Curtis and Harry gave the young woman the return she deserved. Either way, she was gone within the next few seconds, leaving the assembled audience to look back at Xeno for information.

"Belfast is lost," he reported. "Rebel forces finally captured the city about ten minutes ago. The Irish Republic's armies are sitting on the international border, just in case." he added after he checked his watch and matched it with the document's timestamp.

Neville whistled, his anxious foot tapping finally halting. "That's Northern Ireland lost, then."

Xeno nodded. "Indeed. Effective control at about thirty-five percent now," he corrected his initial estimate. He then looked straight at Harry. "With all due respect, Harry, but isn't it time? This country is about a small sneeze away from descending into absolute anarchy."

"I agree with the wand waver," Curtis spoke up, leaning forward as she turned her chair to face Harry, and totally ignoring Xenophilius' indignant look. "We've waited long enough. Everything south of the Glasgow-Edinburgh Line and North of Sheffield is under our control, and the Chiefs have never been weaker! Now is the perfect time to strike!"

"The Air Force is with us," Speirs added to Curtis' voice. "Or, at least, a decent portion of them are. Thompson's been alienating anyone with Northern background, and the rest have been deserting to help out back home," he stated. "Air and land superiority. Should be a breeze."

"You're drunk," Harry observed neutrally. "How much have you had to drink?"

Speirs made a point not to answer until he drank another shot of hard liquor in one go. "Not bloody well enough," he grumbled. "S'not bloody right. Never signed up to kill my own bloody people."

"Man up, Speirs," Curtis chastised her colleague before looking over to Harry again. "Whatever his drama, he's right on one thing—we've got military superiority on land and in the air. Now's the time to take those arrogant pricks down!"

Hughes, who had been patiently listening to Curtis and Speirs' opinions, then nodded along. "I agree," he weighed in. Unfortunately, he didn't seem willing to share anything else, leaving the rest to wonder what had been the clinching argument in his mind.

"The military mages are ready," Xeno added as he brought up the pertinent information on his screen. "Lupin reports that at least fifty more mages are ready for combat under the new, Leeds-class operational guidelines." Xeno then shrugged his shoulders. "It's an overwhelming force, Harry. Never been a better time to act on this."

Harry folded his hands in front of him and leaned forward on the table, his brows furrowed as he gave serious consideration to the counsel of his colleagues. Militarily, they were correct—the north was in excellent shape thanks to his quick and clean operations that had suppressed any rebellion, and the efforts of his administration in rectifying the food shortages. A temporary freeze on the prices had also helped to settle the runaway inflation problems, but unless they managed to unify the country within the year, the whole of the United Kingdom, his holdings included, would devolve into a barter economy, especially with words of additional trade embargoes from the French, and the silence of the Americas.

Yet, Harry hadn't reached this level of power on careless confidence. How many years had he sacrificed waiting for the right opportunities?

"It's not just about force," Harry reminded his colleagues, clasping his hands before him as he leaned onto the table. "However much power we have behind us, we are still only a legitimate force in the north. Should we march into London, we may certainly retain the city, but there's no guarantee the rest of the country will follow suit."

The group before him fell into silence, glancing at each other nervously as they realized their leader had a point. While Harry's reputation in the north was nigh unassailable in the eyes of the public, he was still just another war hero in the central and southern regions of the United Kingdom. As much as Liverpool would back him up on anything, he didn't have that guarantee with Oxford, Canterbury, or any other of the southern cities.

"Furthermore," Harry continued, seeing as how no one had protested yet, "we have no guarantees that any foreign force will not interfere in the event that we do march on London," he pointed out. "Xeno, what's the word on France and the Yanks?"

Xeno coughed once to clear his throat before bringing up the relevant data on his touchpad. "Remus reports that France is on full military alert," he started, making many a military man in the room stiffen with worry before continuing. "But it's not due to us. There's been reports of German mages skirmishing with French border patrols. They seem to think the Germans are trying to provoke something."

"Are they?" asked Curtis.

Xeno shook his head. "Most likely, it's the work of refugee smugglers who got caught in the attempt," he analyzed as he read the information related to the cases in question. "Frankly, with the—pardon the pun—witch hunts the French have organized, I'm surprised it's not worse."

"And the Yanks?" Harry veered the conversation back to the focal problem in their plans.

"They've got their own mess to sort out," Xeno informed the group as he used his fingers to navigate the fantastic gadget. Honestly, how had he lived without technology? "They've got some issues with fundamentalists practically up in arms against the mages, but they're also more preoccupied with the situation in Latin America, where the racial feuds are a lot more brutal."

"So the two major concerns will probably just stand by," Albert summed up.

Speirs shrugged. "Leaving legitimacy still in the air…g'luck trying to get that done in a week," he grumbled as he downed another shot.

"Is that a dare?"

Practically everyone in the room went for a weapon—be it pistol or wand—as the new voice intruded on their conversation. Each person turning their head towards the doorway, they were all surprised to see a somewhat haggard Joshua Warwick standing there, with Sirius at his side not looking much better.

"Joshua, Sirius," Harry greeted them as he stood up, looking somewhat surprised. "You're supposed to be in London."

"Change of plans," Sirius said with a grimace as he flinched when his shoulder made slight contact with the doorway.

Joshua, meanwhile, kept his attention on Speirs. "Was that a dare, Speirs?" the nobleman asked with a weak smirk. "Because I'll take that action—full legitimacy for our coup in one day."

Speirs' eyebrows were not the only ones to rise at this bold proclamation. "Big words. Back them up, Warwick," the somewhat drunken officer challenged.

Joshua gave a weak, triumphant smile as he dug into his rather torn coat and brought out a scrap of paper. "The King has fled London," he announced. "And I know where he is."


	9. Chapter VIII: The King On His Throne

_**AN:** Quicker release of the next chapter! Yay! Let's see if I can pull this off again, eh?_

* * *

**Cudworth, United Kingdom, December 25th, 2010...**

"So, what do we know about this..." Harry checked the report in his hand. "Major Bartel?"

Joshua winced as a field medic finished wrapping the nobleman's wounded arm in bandages. "He's an opportunist," he answered. "Jumped ranks from Lieutenant to Major when his superiors all died in the Ministry attacks."

"He's clever, though," Sirius added from his place by the doorway to the small room Harry was using as his office/bedroom. There hadn't been much choice of quarters in the small town outside Birmingham. "Once he saw that the Chiefs of Staff were losing control over the country, he convinced the King to escape-allegedly because the Chiefs were out to kill him."

"Are they?" Harry asked, curious.

Joshua shook his head. "Not until now, they weren't," he stated bitterly before flinching again as the medic proceeded to his waist. "God _damnit_ that hurts!" he hissed as gauze was applied to his torso.

"Please bear with it, milord," the medic apologized as he continued working.

"Anyway," Sirius picked up. "Bartel managed to initiate a major problem for the Chiefs. So far, they'd been working with the legitimacy afforded to them by the present King-but now that he's gone, they've begun to see how fragile their grasp on the military really is. By the time Joshua and I escaped, we were hearing of mass mutinies."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "That fast?" he asked, surprised. Usually, this sort of news took at least a day or two to filter out to the public.

"Bartel must've had agents in place to spread the news in order to stall the Chiefs' response," Joshua offered up as an explanation. "Either way, Taylor and his ilk thought Parliament had cooked up the idea."

Sirius nodded. "Barely made it out of the capital alive," he added, rubbing his already wrapped neck wounds. "Bastards caught us in full session-maybe two thirds of the MPs are dead or captured."

Harry nodded as he read through the hastily drafted report in his hand-courtesy of Sirius, who'd been the better off of the two politicians. "We were lucky," he analyzed as he tapped the report with his free hand. "If most of our top players weren't at Liverpool already when this happened, the Chiefs would've managed to cripple us permanently."

"Agreed," concurred Sirius. "On the other hand, the sudden retaliation has also forced the Ministry of Magic to relocate from London entirely," he stated, surprising Harry as this information was not in the report. "With Parliament all but gone, there's nothing to really stop the Chiefs from venting their rage on the mages," he explained.

"Hmm...sooner than expected, but not unforeseen," Harry mused as he considered the information. "I'm guessing they've gone north?" he asked.

"Correct."

Harry nodded again. That made sense-currently, northern Scotland was pretty much the only safe haven the mages had left in the British Isles, as most of the population there had fled south once the magical civil war had escalated. With this development, however, he could estimate that the Ministry's overall soundness had reached critical point.

"The civil war up north is going to heat up then," he noted, causing Joshua and Sirius to nod in agreement, before turning his attention back to Joshua. "Do we have any contacts within Bartel's group we can use to exfiltrate the king?" he asked.

Joshua glanced at Sirius and, upon seeing the man shake his head in the negative, added his own shake. "Unfortunately not-he was never deemed a player, so we completely overlooked him."

Harry sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly. He couldn't blame his associates for the oversight-to be honest, there was nothing remarkable about Bartel other than his opportunistic streak. He had simply taken advantage of the situation to his own benefit, completely blindsiding the major parties in the power struggle over dominance of the British Isles.

Just then, a man bearing corporal's stripes entered the room and saluted Harry, who returned it casually. "Sir, blockade procedures have been finished around the city," he reported. "Generals Speirs and Curtis await your orders."

Harry nodded. "And Bartel's forces?" he asked.

"General Speirs reports that Major Bartel and six hundred men have fortified their position in the Birmingham Council House, along with ten thousand militia scattered around the city," the soldier replied dutifully. "Mage Wenshi has requested the honour of leading a strike force to rescue His Majesty," he added.

Harry considered the proposal for a moment before shaking his head. "Permission denied, corporal-tell Wenshi to stand down and await further instructions," he stated. "Also, send word to Speirs and Curtis-keep up the blockade, but make no aggressive moves."

"Sir!"

With a deft salute, the soldier quickly left the room, leaving Harry with his two political minds. "Well?" he asked them.

Joshua nodded. "Very astute," he praised. "Sending in a military force would've incurred panic within the local militia and Bartel's traitors. That never ends pretty."

Sirius concurred. "Smarter to negotiate for the King's release to our custody," he agreed. "Though we'll need to move fast-the Chiefs won't let this sort of thing go. If we delay too long, they'll mobilize troops to get rid of the problem."

Harry nodded. "Agreed."

* * *

**Birmingham, United Kingdom, December 31st, 2010...**

Six days.

It took six days of back-and-forth communication between Harry's forward base and Birmingham's Council House before any sort of deal could be struck between the two parties.

Bartel, being little more than an opportunist, had wanted Harry to surrender command of his forces to him, being that he was the "protector" of the King. Harry, in turn, had rejected the command out of hand and pointed out that he had two survivors of the aftermath of the king's escape who could testify that there had never been any agenda to kill the crippled monarch, thereby damning Bartel of criminal fraud and, potentially, kidnapping the ruling monarch-for which the penalty under the new regime was unequivocally death.

That had changed the traitor's tune quite a bit, leading some to believe the negotiations would be finished within the day, but those hopes were dashed when Bartel stonewalled the negotiations for five days. In that time, Speirs had reported that the city's defenses had increased in manpower steadily, and UAV pictures seemed to indicate that the militia had doubled in size-no doubt aided and abetted by forced conscription by Bartel's traitors.

For a moment, Harry had worried that, regardless of the negotiations, this would all just come down to blows. That was a problem, since it meant the monarch could be potentially harmed during the fighting. Given the man's crippled state, Harry doubted that he'd need as much harm as a normal person before giving out.

Thankfully, on the sixth day, word came from Bartel that he was surrendering. Everyone, including Harry, had sighed in relief as the transmission came into the operations room of the forward base-which was just the living room of some family that had abandoned the house when his forces had arrived at Cudworth. Within moments of the transmission, Harry had ordered Curtis and Speirs to move into Birmingham and relieve the militia of their weapons. In exchange, he'd promised immunity from criminal charges to Bartel and his forces for their part in kidnapping the ruling monarch.

So it was that, announced by the sound of rumbling engines, the forces of the General of the North rolled into Birmingham. Tanks and troop carriers, all of them emblazoned with Harry's motif-a two-headed eagle with its wings spread in flight.

Midway through the mobilized forces, Harry sat shotgun in the jeep assigned to take him to the Council House, basking in the feeling of success that this episode's bloodless conclusion brought him. His companion in the car, however, was not so secure in his feeling of victory.

"...we should've waited longer," Hughes opined as his eyes darted from window to window on the passing buildings.

Harry chuckled at his colleague's paranoia. "Calm down, Albert," he reassured the man. "You heard Bartel's surrender as clearly as everyone else. Everything's fine."

Hughes eyed the rising warlord at his side in a chastising manner. "You should know better than anyone else that sometimes people lie," he berated the younger man. "Who's to say that Bartel isn't trying to trap us right now?" he asked before again glancing at every window that passed by. "I would."

"That's because you're a master of psychological warfare, Albert," Harry reminded him. "Bartel isn't that smart-not according to what Sirius and Warwick reported."

"Yes, because _you've_ never appeared to be anything other than a genius," Hughes remarked sarcastically. He practically jumped out of his seat as he watched a window open nearby, only to relax a little when he saw it had just been a civilian woman reaching for her plants on the windowsill. His hand had practically been on the butt of his pistol, ready to draw and fire.

Harry hadn't missed the event, and eyed his friend worriedly. "Honestly, Albert, I've never seen you this worried-not even when we were pulling off that crazy ambush at Pedernales."

"Pedernales was a straightforward op," Hughes shot back. "There was a clear enemy, a clear plan, and our forces weren't separated from each other by over a hundred city blocks of concrete!"

Harry sighed as his friend seemed to finally reach the edge of a panic attack. Leaning forward, he tapped the driver on the shoulder, making the soldier glance backwards. "Stop the car," Harry ordered.

Without even questioning why, the driver complied with the order, leaving Hughes to glance at Harry questioningly. The budding warlord merely returned the look and got out of the car. "Come on," he told Hughes. "If you're really this worried, might as well have a look on the rooftops-see if we see anything."

With a slow nod of understanding, Hughes followed suit, as did Harry's bodyguard-Trooper Kline, who had already distinguished himself as a capable soldier in another ambush.

As they did so, Harry waved on the troop trucks and heavy armor vehicles, letting them know not to stop even if he did. Thankfully, they were disciplined enough to follow orders and kept going, keeping their questions to themselves.

Turning back to the duo, Harry spared a glance to the driver and nodded. "Keep the engine warm," he ordered. "We won't be long," he added, confident that Hughes was worrying over nothing. Even if Bartel wanted to double-cross him, Harry's forces were well equipped and well trained-nothing short of an absolute, organized, meticulously planned catastrophe would stop their acquisition of the sitting monarch.

Without further words, Harry led the two-much to Kline's dismay-up to the rooftop of the nearest building with a proper access point. There, standing atop the building, they had a clear view of the passing military convoy, as well as a few blocks away in each direction.

By Harry's estimate, they stood there about an hour before he turned to Hughes, looking a little irritated. "See?" he extended his arm to showcase the peaceful city landscape-military convoy notwithstanding. "Nothing. Not a peep. If Bartel was going to betray us, don't you think he would have done so alre-"

He hadn't a chance to finish that thought, as Kline threw himself against him and tackled Harry to the ground, Hughes throwing himself down on pure instinct, just as a bullet whizzed by and struck the access door behind them.

"CONTACT!" Kline roared into his communicator as he kept his leader pinned down.

Hughes glared at Harry from his prone position, his pistol already drawn and ready to fire. "You were saying?" he asked sarcastically.

"Shut up," Harry hissed through gritted teeth, his head ringing a little from both the impact of the ground and Kline's yelling. Immediately, his hand went up to his earpiece and tapped it on, just as at least three dozen explosions rang out in the distance. "This is General White to all forces: we have been betrayed by the traitor Bartel!" he shouted, just as another shot rang overhead. Instinctively, he ducked his head against the ground, practically tasting the unclean cement floor. "All forces: engage the enemy! Show no quarter!"

"We have to get out of here!" Kline yelled from his kneeling position next to Harry, assault rifle already up and returning fire against the sniper who'd shot at them.

"You think?" Hughes shouted right back.

Another explosion rang out-this one much closer. Judging from the massive plume of black smoke rising from further down the street, Harry was willing to bet that one of his tanks-a precious commodity in his military-had just met its untimely end.

"Damn it!" he roared as he slammed his fist angrily against the cement rooftop. He spared Hughes a look of apology then. "Looks like you were right, Albert."

"Whoopee," came the flat response.

Looking back up to Kline, Harry thought of getting up, but seeing the soldier's dead-serious look as he returned fire, thought better of it. "Trooper Kline-Status report," he ordered.

"Two snipers on the opposing rooftop," the man replied as he kept his rifle held up, eyes scanning for the enemy. "Got them pinned down for now, but there's no telling when they'll try again, or if they have reinforcements inbound."

Harry nodded. "Alright, then. Kline, covering fire," he ordered, not bothering to check whether the man agreed or not before turning his attention to Hughes. "Albert, on me. We've got to get down to the road and establish a forward command post. It's got to be chaos out there." As if to emphasize that analysis, the sound of explosions and gunfire only intensified.

Hughes eyed the low-level parapet that kept him and Harry safe from the sniper fire before sighing and nodding. "Right. On three?" he asked.

Harry nodded. "On three."

* * *

**CP-1, Birmingham, United Kingdom, 7 Hours Later...**

It had taken an indecent amount of effort to clear out the block where they'd gotten ambushed, but after a few hours of fighting, there had been enough certainty that the area was secure for Harry to lead a small force into a building and establish a command post there, designating the location CP-1. Only after about an hour after that was he able to grasp the full catastrophe of the situation.

His convoy-one of three separate detachments-had been hit in four places, managing to split his forces four-ways, and from the incoming reports arriving every minute, he was pretty much ready to concede that he'd lost about a fourth of them, with little to no enemy casualties.

Even worse, he hadn't been able to get into contact with Speirs or Curtis, so the situation on the other ends of the city was still unclear, leaving him very much in the dark regarding the overall status of the operation.

Even now, flanked by Hughes and hovering over a map sprawled atop a hastily cleared dinner table, Harry couldn't bear the amount of red crosses that signified overrun or destroyed positions marked on it.

An explosion outside made the room shake a bit, and yet Harry kept his eyes on the map, trying to figure out a way to extricate his men out of the situation he'd foolishly led them into.

"We've got reports of enemy militia blocking off the rest of the A38," one of the men manning the radios reported. "We've also lost contact with forward positions G8 through G10!"

Harry watched dully as additional marks were scratched onto the map, with Hughes reading through the reports as they came in.

"What an utter clusterfuck," the older man grumbled. "Bartel really caught us with our pants down."

Harry suddenly slammed his fist into the table, no longer shocking anyone with his outburst of rage. He had long since broken two more as his magic went out of control. "I'm going to gut that traitor like a fish," he swore.

"First we have to get to him," Hughes pointed out. "And with the A38 now blocked, we're going to have to fight through a hell of a lot more territory to get there."

Harry nodded as he looked down at the map. Obviously, aerial support would be the quickest solution to getting rid of much of the pests in his way, as was the idea of unleashing the military mages. Unfortunately, both options had problems.

"Aerial support is still a day away from being ready," Hughes had read the return message from Liverpool. "Almost all of our assets were deployed throughout the north and on patrol when William recalled them," he'd elaborated then. "It'll take time to scrounge up the ammunition and petrol we need to make them effective here. Plus, we don't exactly have an airbase handy," Hughes had reminded him.

Of course, Harry had quickly remedied that, ordering that as soon as the air support-mostly, if not entirely made up of helicopters, plus a few odd fighter jets they'd managed to reclaim from London's authority-was ready, they were to establish a makeshift air base on the outskirts of Cudworth. It wasn't the most ideal solution, but the only one they had on hand in order to keep the air support handy.

Harry inspected the map before him with further scrutiny, his left index finger tapping continuously as he tried to figure out a way to get his people out of the current situation. Opting for a gamble, he pointed to a northbound route from their current post. "There," he indicated to Hughes, who stopped reading to see what the plan was. "Send five companies up that route and circle behind the enemy emplacements," he ordered.

Hughes eyed the indicated route for a moment before nodding in agreement. "Done," he acknowledged, and turned to the radioman. "I need five company commanders here ASAP!" he barked.

Harry, meanwhile, kept his attention on his developing strategy. As much as he dearly wanted to just light up the enemy positions with his magic, he knew that using his battle magic on Britons would result in an uproar throughout the isles, leaving him no choice but to fight by conventional means. "How much armor do we have?" he asked.

"Maybe ten-the bulk of them were under Curtis," Hughes answered as he leaned forward onto the table, propping up an elbow there. "If we send five southbound, plus two companies, we should be able to divert the enemy's attention from our northern advance," he pointed out.

Harry nodded in agreement. "Good idea. Do it," he ordered. "Additionally, have mortar teams increase bombardment of frontal enemy positions-make them think we're going for a two-pronged attack."

Hughes nodded and turned to relay orders, just as another messenger ran into the room, heralded by another, building-shaking explosion.

"Sir!"

Harry turned to the man, ignoring the falling dust. "Report, soldier."

"We've managed to make contact with the Military Mages," the trooper reported with a salute. "They managed to break through the enemy lines to our rear. Wenshi wishes to know how to proceed."

Harry sighed in relief. At least with his mages on hand, he could act with much more flexibility. Eyeing the map again, he quickly made a decision. "Tell Wenshi to send two teams to make contact with Generals Curtis and Speirs," he ordered. "As well as two teams, including himself, to support our northern advance."

"Yes, sir!"

"Sir!" one of the radiomen shouted to get Harry's attention, managing to do so. "We've received word from Liverpool Command-Administrator White has managed to requisition a cargo plane and will be sending airborne reinforcements at 0300 hours tomorrow, at the earliest."

Harry gave a silent prayer of thanks to his younger brother for coming through so effectively. He'd had doubts about leaving William in charge of Liverpool in his absence, and had heard quite a few protests voiced on account of his sibling's youth, but it was heartening to see that he hadn't picked wrong.

Nepotism aside, William was, to Harry's mind, a man of brilliant intellect, even if that intellect did not necessarily translate into effective interpersonal skills. Nonetheless, when it came to administration, his brother was fair and brilliant, and the fact that he'd managed to secure both the air support and reinforcements he needed on such short notice was nothing short of impressive.

"Looks like the White family is really kicking off, eh?" Hughes remarked with a smirk as he finished briefing the detachment commanders and rejoined Harry at the map table. "While big brother is out to play, the younger sibling administrates. Nice yin-yang thing you've got going there."

Harry gave Hughes a flat stare. "William was the best suited for the job-that's all," he defended himself. "Anyway, I'm not too worried about Liverpool."

"Right," Hughes agreed as he looked at the same place on the map that Harry was. "Manchester and Leeds."

"This would be a fantastic opportunity for them to shake us off," Harry commented bitterly. While the operations to take the cities had been amazingly successful, he had never harboured any doubts that some of the two cities' citizenry resented the imposition of control. "Hopefully, Joshua and Sirius can handle the situation there."

"We're spread thin, Harry," Hughes pointed out as he slid forward a document. "We brought too many troops here. Manchester and Leeds have a sizeable contingent each, true, but not enough to hold the cities back if they do decide on a full uprising."

Not for the first time, Harry cursed at his own arrogance. He'd never stopped winning thus far, and as a result had grown too complacent. For his pride, thousands of his men had already died in the ambush. Nonetheless, it was his job to see the rest go home safely. "Sirius and Joshua can handle the situation up north," Harry reiterated confidently, hoping his nervousness didn't leak through. "If something happens, William can provide support."

"While still supporting us?" Hughes asked doubtfully.

Harry nodded. "He still has Remus and the rest of the military mages. I trust my men to get the job done," he said firmly.

Hughes stared at his commander for a moment in silence before nodding. "Very well," he acknowledged before turning back to the map. "Now then..."

"...let's see how we can get ourselves out of this mess," Harry finished for his colleague, both men ignoring another explosion outside and the falling dust.

* * *

**Leeds, United Kingdom, January 7th, 2011...**

Sirius was not pleased as he received the 'official' delegation from the 'concerned' Civil Defense Council-the very same group that had seized control from the centralized government over a week ago. While now allegedly demilitarized, those members that had escaped execution for treason had seemingly reunited under the very same name and were now, again allegedly, peacefully petitioning that the military evacuate the city.

"You _must_ be joking," Sirius stated flatly as the head of the delegation finished putting forth his request.

The man in question shook his head slowly. "I'm afraid not, Administrator White," he stated officiously. "The events in Birmingham have seriously affected the public's confidence in General White, and we no longer believe he is in a position to effectively maintain order in our city."

Sirius stared at the man incredulously, having half a mind to whip out his wand and execute the entire delegation where they stood for treason. Unfortunately, that particular facet of his abilities were still a secret, so he was forced to play the Muggle. "The Birmingham Incident, while regrettable, is not indicative of any real loss of power," Sirius told the group, his hands entwined with each other on his desk.

"While bloodied, our forces remain the standing, legitimate military force in the north, and if you upstanding gentlemen see differently, you are most welcome to bring it up with General White himself when he gets back."

"_If_ he gets back," one of the delegates corrected.

"_When_," Sirius stated firmly. "This isn't the first time he's been ambushed, and at least this time he's not critically wounded," he said, remembering what Harry had told him of the ambush in Spain. "This administration is not optional, gentlemen. You do not get a say in whether we stay or go," he reminded them. "This is an emergency government, placed into position by a legitimate officer of the military, in a time of martial law. While you are welcome to voice your grievances, we have_ no _obligation to even listen."

That earned him some glares, which he duly returned with just as much force. "If that is all," he continued. "then I would ask that you leave now-I have another appointment waiting outside."

The glares intensified, but as they had been properly shot down, the delegation had no choice but to leave-always under the watchful eye of the guards-while Sirius pondered this new development on his own.

To be honest, this was a disaster. The ambush at Birmingham hadn't been expected, and its results were becoming painfully obvious. Already, there was word that the total friendly casualties were well in the five thousand range, and the three detachments they had sent were still unable to hook up with each other, though some measure of communication had been established.

Unfortunately, this meant that those areas recently conquered by Harry's forces had begun to question their loyalties, driving Sirius, Joshua, and even William back in Liverpool to run interference and crush any group that even so much as thought of rebellion. Already, Sirius had overseen five operations that resulted in the total arrest of nearly seven hundred individuals, of which roughly a quarter had to be executed for treason. He'd heard that Joshua, in Manchester, had it even rougher-nearly four hundred people had been executed for treason. William, thankfully, seemed to be riding on the people's support for his older brother, and had only a few peaceful dissenters to deal with.

The problem was that as time went by, the groups seeking to overthrow the administrations put into place by Harry were beginning to grow in number. The CDC, in particular, had already grown to about two thousand members, officially. Unofficially, there was no way to know the extent of their influence on the local populace. Even worse was the fact that there were rumours that they had begun recruiting in the surrounding countryside, thereby spreading Sirius' forces even further in an attempt to put a stop to the rising rebel sentiments.

Pressing the speaker button on the intercom, he buzzed his next appointment-quite possibly the very last person he had ever thought would be an effective advisor in this matter. "Let her in."

Within moments, the door to his office opened again, and in strode Luna Lovegood, daughter of Harry's intelligence chief. The years had been kind and unkind to her. While still very much retaining her youthful good looks, Luna's legendary quirkiness had suffered as a result of years of torment and psychological damage from her time at Hogwarts.

Once an eccentric, but bright and kind young girl, Luna had evolved into more of a social recluse, still with an inkling of the kindness she was known for, but otherwise completely dedicated to her work as an administrative aide to Sirius, now that he was in charge of Leeds. It had been Xeno's idea, oddly enough.

"Luna," he greeted amiably. "Please tell me you have good news," he said half-jokingly. In truth, he really needed the morale boost after that last meeting.

The pretty blonde shook her head, giving Sirius a small, apologetic smile. "Sorry Sirius," she apologized as she lay a stack of papers she was carrying on his desk. "More operation approvals-looks like the lads found a few more cells worth taking out."

Sirius sighed as he leaned his face into his hands. Unless the Birmingham ambush was resolved quickly, the whole of the north could face its own destruction. After a moment of heavy silence, Sirius spoke up. "I need ideas, Luna," he told her sincerely. "I don't know what to do."

Luna looked at the older man with some compassion. She had seen how Sirius was struggling to manage the rebel cells in Leeds with the limited amount of resources he had on hand. Unfortunately, short of widespread conscription, he would have to deal with the shortages until the main force came back from Birmingham.

Unless, of course, they began to think outside the box.

"I have one," she admitted a little shyly. To be honest, it had been a bourgeoning idea of hers for the past two months, but she had never managed to gather the courage to speak up-particularly since she had been all but confined to her home while she underwent heavy therapy to cope with her psychological turmoil.

Sirius looked up at her, blinking. "Beg your pardon?" he asked, not entirely sure he'd heard her right.

Luna had the decency to blush and look away in embarrassment. "I have an idea," she repeated, almost in a mumble. "But it'll take a lot of reforms."

Sirius eyed the girl doubtfully for a moment before slowly nodding, figuring there was no harm in at least hearing her out. "Very well-lay it on me," he told her as he straightened up and gave her his attention.

Luna swallowed nervously. "Well, the way I figure it, the root of our problems here and in Manchester is that we're seen as an invading body," she stated. "With few exceptions, our command hierarchies, both military and administrative, are entirely composed of Liverpudlians or men and women in Harry's personal confidence," she added. "But if we relaxed our admittance policy and began to reorganize the administrations to better incorporate the local populace, I believe we could relieve much of the tension building up and in turn strengthen the population's loyalty to Harry."

Sirius stared at Luna for a moment in utter silence, his expression betraying nothing, until he finally smacked his own face in embarrassment and self-shame. "So obvious..." he mumbled in self-reprimand. "Gods, we've been stupid."

Luna blushed in embarrassment as Sirius inflicted pain on himself. "We should also reform the administrative structure we're using," she added in, hoping he'd stop hurting himself in self-recrimination. "As it is, we're basically using the existing structures and trying to work within its regulations, but they were never formed to sustain a region in this sort of situation-for our purposes, we need more centralization," she explained. "No city councils, no town councils-just the branches of the central bureaucracy and institutions. All decision-making needs to come from one place."

Finally, Sirius stopped smacking himself for his observed idiocy and eyed Luna. "If we abolish the councils, we're risking a major public backlash," he reminded her. Even his position, pretty much imposed on the city by Harry's troops, banked on the City Council's presence for its legitimacy. Wiping that out would mean he had absolute authority based on a mandate given miles away, not public consent.

In short, authoritarianism.

Luna, however, surprised him by nodding. "Maybe, if we handle it badly," she conceded conditionally. Sirius was amazed how, now that she had begun speaking of her idea, a little of Luna's allegedly serene disposition seemed to filter back in. "But what the people want most is stability in their lives. Any action, when presented in the right way, will be accepted by the people if it serves to better their lives."

And now Sirius could see how Luna resembled her father, who was quite used to twisting public perception to the cause's agenda. Joshua, too, had voiced similar sentiments before, and his masterful handling of his media assets had been instrumental in securing Harry's rise to power.

Unfortunately, Sirius did not personally have the authority to implement the idea unilaterally. Not because of the City Council-they'd be gone in one swift pen stroke if this went through-but because, as Luna said, there needed to be centralization, which meant that he would have to talk to William and Joshua and coordinate with them to set up an appropriate administrative structure.

Sirius smiled to himself-he was sure William would love the idea; the poor boy hated administrating, despite how good he was at it. He much preferred putting his college degrees to good use and negotiating or litigating in the cause's favour. It was often even whispered here and there that if ever the cause truly took off, William would undoubtedly become Joshua's right-hand man in regards to foreign policy, leaving Sirius with heading the administrative front.

Luna, however, misinterpreted the silence for doubt, and sought to press her claim, while she could still muster the courage to speak up. It was no easy feat, and her palms were sweating with nervousness as she overcame years of psychological damage to express herself as she'd once done. "S-Streamlining the administrative process for all the cities would mean faster decision-making, and if we include the locals in it, I'm sure we could earn their gratitude and loyalty," she pressed. "Right now, we're just outsiders imposing our will on them, and with all the mages under our command answering only to Liverpool, they probably feel like if they stay under our thumb, the mages will be used to crush them any time they act out."

Sirius nodded, agreeing with Luna's analysis visibly now-earning him a relieved sigh from the young woman. "Very good analysis, Luna; I can see why you were sorted into Ravenclaw," he praised her before buzzing for his secretary. "Please get Administrators White of Liverpool and Warwick of Manchester on the line, Violet," he ordered, returning his attention to Luna the moment he heard the woman's confirmation. "Luna, if this works, we will all be deeply in your debt," he told her seriously. "Thank you."

Luna blushed again, her crippling shyness once again asserting itself. "It's...nothing," she mumbled before leaving in a hurry.

Sirius sighed as he watched the young woman leave. He'd never met the young woman before Xenophilius had asked Sirius to put her on his staff, but he'd heard enough from people who _had_ to know what a radical change she had gone through during her teenage years.

Luna had been the school 'weirdo,' apparently, at Hogwarts. Dressing oddly, wearing the weirdest, most eccentric accessories, and spouting off half-baked rumours that her father had published in his daily tabloid. It was no surprise to know that her social circle was quite small, too, but from what Xeno had told Sirius over drinks one night, she _did_ have friends. More surprising was that the fact that two of them were now working for the other side-Hermione Granger and Ginny Weasley.

Sirius had his doubts, then, about the girl's reliability. After all, with two of her only friends working for the other side, what guarantees were there that she wouldn't defect? Xeno had reassured him that was impossible, given that upon graduation, Luna had been effectively shunned by the society around her, and not even Weasley or Granger had been able to succor her in the interim years before he took her and went over to Harry's side. The utter discrimination she'd had unleashed on her in the years after school had crippled her psychologically, embittering Xeno and driving her to seclusion, until, after over a year of heavy, constant therapy, she had begun to come out of her shell once again.

Sirius wasn't blind, or stupid-as much as he might have claimed otherwise. Luna was still a fragile case, and he could surmise that it was his own amiable nature that had convinced Xeno that he was the right man for her to work for and come out of her shell. William was too emotionally distant and cold, even if not by design, and Warwick had elitist tendencies that sometimes rubbed the common folk the wrong way. That, and he respected ambition and talent, the latter of which Luna definitely had, but not the former.

At least, not yet.

* * *

**Birmingham, United Kingdom, January 10th, 2011...**

Eleven days.

Eleven days of fighting since the ambush had been sprung on the Northern Forces.

Harry had never felt so humiliated in his life as he'd been forced to endure knowing that he'd been utterly played and drawn into a classic ambush scenario. Frankly, it was a miracle he hadn't lost everything in one fell swoop-something he credited his talented officers and subordinates with. Within days of the ambush first kicking off, his brother William had sent airborne reinforcements that not only opened a new front in the city-wide fighting, but very nearly managed to blitz their way to the City Council House, nearly ending the fight right then and there. Only the quick regrouping of the enemy forces had stopped the paratroopers from succeeding in their mission. Even the mages Harry had deployed to help the paratroopers had been halted, losing three of their number in the ensuing firefights.

Speirs and Curtis, too, had gone to work on the rebels, managing to keep the majority of their forces intact after it became apparent that something had gone wrong. Nonetheless, both had suffered losses, and the rebels were far more entrenched than any of the three Northern leaders had fought possible, given the short time they'd had to prepare for the ambush.

Out of the three, Harry's detachment had been hit the worst, with two thousand casualties and rising out of the total force's 30,000 infantrymen. His armour contingent had been all that stood between them and total destruction, managing to set up armoured choke points that kept the enemy at bay-thankfully, the rebels seemed to lack anti-armour weaponry more sophisticated than IEDs, which in turn made it very dangerous for anyone to use any of the city's roads.

There were gains too, though.

Thanks to whatever it was that William and the other administrators up north had done, Harry now counted with additional infantry to help his efforts. So boosted, he managed to coordinate a four-pronged push towards the city centre that got them within five blocks of it, though they were pretty much stopped cold when the inner defense works of the rebels opened fire.

The air support helped, too. With a good two squadrons of attack helicopters now on hand, Harry had managed to push the rebel lines further into the city than he'd have been able to without them, though the process was still slow and painful.

The real hero of the battle, however, was Neville.

Leading the military mages into battle, Neville had taken it upon himself to hop throughout the city with his men and assist cut-off and isolated troops, as well as providing emergency medivac's for those caught too far outside friendly lines to risk a rescue. Even more heroically, he had led no less than five assaults against enemy fixed positions, earning the love and respect of the men he led.

Compared to him, Harry felt like an embarrassment. Where was his vaunted intelligence and strategic know-how? Where was his brilliance now? Had he truly become so arrogant as to believe he could not be stopped by anyone?

Well, if so, fate had handed him an unkindly reminder of how empty his hubris was.

And Harry had never felt more humbled.

Humbled, however, but not beaten.

However much he lamented his decision to enter the city without so much as a scouting vanguard, Harry knew well that the worst thing he could do was paralyze himself for his perceived incompetence. Even if his subordinates and colleagues were outshining him, he was still the leader they all looked to for guidance, and were pinning their hopes on him to get them out of the horrible nightmare they had entered.

"The objective hasn't changed," Harry briefed the commanders still left alive from the operation-another major problem, given that many had died in the initial ambush, forcing him to dole out quite a few field promotions. "We will still rescue His Majesty from the traitor Bartel, and gut the rebel forces once and for all," he added imperiously as he drew the pointer to its full length and pointed to the map he was standing next to.

"Our last assault on the city centre was a success, even if we did not reach Victoria Square proper," he continued, and was pleased to see that all eyes were either on him or the map, with no resentment shining in them. "But a cornered animal is twice as dangerous as normal, and so we must not underestimate the enemy just because they are finally on the ropes. One mistake, and we will suffer dearly," he reminded them, before mentally lamented, '_Just like you did for mine..._'

"To that end, a frontal assault has been ruled out, due to the heavy casualties this would naturally incur," he explained. "Attempting to breach through via the surrounding buildings has also been ruled out, as we have discovered that the optimal breach points have all either been heavily garrisoned by the enemy or booby-trapped."

"What about an air drop, sir?" asked a Major with his hand raised.

Harry nodded at him. "Good question, Major, but it, too, has been ruled out," he answered as he pointed to several red circles on the map surrounding Victoria Square. "These have been positively identified by Military Mage Wenshi as anti-air emplacements-though rudimentary, they will be enough to bring down our helicopters if they get in range. Any paratroopers jumping in the Square will likewise be cut to shreds once they enter the kill zone."

He saw many an officer blanch at his analysis, but thankfully none of them had started to protest or moan. All of them seemed more interested in what the plan would ultimately be, since all the mentioned courses of action had been ruled out.

"Thus, we have decided on an unconventional attack by attempting a subterraneous insertion within the enemy lines, and from there launch a surprise attack on the enemy positions blocking the bulk of our forces. This will be accomplished by planting explosives underneath the enemy positions," Harry continued before tapping his pointer on a metro station, noting that most of the assembled officers were nodding in agreement with the plan. "This will be the initial insertion point for our front," he stated, pointing to a station marking at least ten miles away from the actual front lines. "Ten fireteams will deploy with a military mage each, who will provide their respective fireteams with the necessary routes to their assigned targets."

"Are we not using the metro system, sir?" called out a Captain.

Harry shook his head, tapping the pointer against an open palm. "Negative," he answered. "Not all of the enemy positions are placed underneath part of the metro system," he explained. "Furthermore, as you all know, the rebels have managed to blockade all the metro tunnels a mile out of Victoria Square."

"What if an assigned position happens to be one of the blockade points, sir?"

Harry nodded at the officer who'd asked that. "In that event, the military mage assigned to the appropriate fireteam will create an alternate route that will allow the fireteam to ambush the blockade point," he answered, glad to have considered that possibility in his planning session with Hughes. "Make no mistake, gentlemen, we have attempted to take every precaution to make sure that as little danger as possible is posed to the fireteams who will be chosen to go into the tunnels. Nonetheless, it _is_ likely that there _will_ be unexpected developments, so remember to warn the men to keep their eyes open."

Again, there were many nods amongst the officers to show that they understood, and Harry felt honoured that such good men were still listening to him, despite his mistakes. "Any further questions?" he asked the assembled military men. After a few minutes of silence, Harry nodded, pleased. "Very good. Dismissed."

* * *

**Tunnel A-5, Eastern Front, Birmingham, United Kingdom, 5 Hours Later...**

Neville had never felt so tired in his life.

For the past two hours, he'd been using his magic to dig tunnels underneath Birmingham-striking the odd support beam here and there-with a fireteam trodding behind him cautiously, the rearguard of said team being the most alert of the bunch. Rolling his shoulders as he took a breather, Neville hissed as his sore wand arm protested at the movement, but kept at it nonetheless.

"How much further?" asked the Lieutenant in charge of the fireteam.

Neville snapped his fingers at another of the team. "Light," he ordered, prompting the man to bring out a flashlight as Neville unfolded the map in his breast pocket on the floor, squatting beside it. He pointed to a particular position on the map, and the flashlight wielding soldier uncapped a pen and drew a line from that point to where the line had previously ended.

"Five minutes out," Neville estimated, thanking whatever deities there be that his part of the job was almost over. He glanced at the Lieutenant. "Any word from the other teams?"

The Lieutenant nodded. "A-1 through A-3 are done, as are A-8 and A-10," he told the military mage. "A-7 ran into one of the blockade points, but their mage managed to take them out before they could radio for help," he added.

Neville nodded, trying to remember who it was he'd assigned to that team-he'd need to commend them later. "So no casualties-thank goodness," he breathed in relief. After eleven days of constant fighting, Neville had almost lost hope of ever hearing of such a situation again. "We still on schedule?" he asked.

The Lieutenant checked his watch and nodded. "Right on time."

Neville nodded back and got to his feet, wishing they'd brought along a healing type military mage to provide some relief for his sore arm. Unfortunately, with the mass of casualties they'd suffered, the mages were all needed above ground.

Bending backwards, hands on his hips, Neville stretched himself out and rolled his shoulders before bringing his wand back up. "Remember, set the clock for the designated time," he reminded the soldier holding the explosives, who nodded back. Glad to see everyone was still on track, he brought his wand to bear on the earthen wall before him and closed his eyes as he channeled his magic once more.

Feeling the power rush through him, Neville's eyes snapped back open and he slashed his wand up and back down before jabbing it at the wall. "_DEFODIO!_" he incanted, pleased to see that his magic hadn't yet let up as deep gouges were formed in the wall before him.

Gritting his teeth, Neville kept up the stream of magic as the spell carved a way for them through the earthen barrier, his concentration constant as he brought the spell around in an almost perfect circle to make sure that they could all walk at least two by two.

Though Neville had estimated the digging to take only another five minutes, it felt more like five hours to him as he kept his focus exclusively on the spell, only moving forward one step at a time as the hole became deeper and deeper. It wasn't until the Lieutenant tapped him on the shoulder that he finally stopped, and almost collapsed to the ground from exhaustion.

"Take a breather," the Lieutenant recommended with a smile before turning to the members of his team. "Alright, lads! You know what to do!"

With acknowledging nods, the fireteam began to unpack the stacks of C4 they had been assigned and placed them in the middle of the tunnel, making sure that at least twenty large packs were affixed to the walls and ceiling. By the time they were done rigging the place to blow, Neville was sure that there was enough C4 to cause a city block to get leveled. Fortunately, with the ceiling being the thinnest point for the explosion to go, most of it would be concentrated upwards.

It took about thirty minutes before the team declared the area ready to blow, which got the Lieutenant eyeing Neville for a moment. "You good to go?" he asked. Neville, who was still breathing heavily, took a moment before nodding.

"Yeah, I'm good," he assured the Lieutenant. "Set the timer," he ordered.

The Lieutenant nodded and squatted over to the detonator mechanism, pressing the buttons on the interface until it showed the predetermined demolition hour. "All set," he declared.

"Portkey out, I'll follow in a bit," Neville told the fireteam, who promptly acknowledged the order by reaching for an inconspicuous pin on their lapels. The second they did, all of the fireteam seemed to be sucked into nothingness, telling Neville the devices had worked.

Left alone, Neville sighed as he pushed himself up and walked back the way he came for about thirty meters before turning around, his wand at the ready. "Man, this is tiresome," he complained to himself as he raised his wand and pointed it at the ground. "Nothing for it, then. _Murgere!_" he incanted, and watched as a wall of solid earth began to rise ten feet away from the detonation spot, slowly filling up the cavern before Neville as he led the wand from the assigned spot all the way to the ground two feet in front of him.

Ending the spell once the final layer of the wall was up, Neville reached out with his free hand and tapped it, finding himself pleased by its solidity. This way, even if the wall gave out eventually, the majority of the blast would be aimed straight up, making sure that the enemy position was obliterated.

Satisfied with a job well done, he reached for the pin on his lapel, and as he felt a familiar tug at his collar, saw the tunnel no more.

* * *

**Birmingham, United Kingdom, January 11th, 2011...**

The explosions heralded the assault.

At precisely four o'clock in the morning, over thirty large scale detonations ripped through the city of Birmingham, completely and utterly devastating the thirty most heavily entrenched positions in the rebel perimeter. One did not even need to be near the explosion to see its magnitude, as windows blocks away shattered into pieces from the shockwave that followed, and any building that had been left mildly ruined by the fighting collapsed into itself.

What came afterwards, however, was the real show.

Spearheaded by an enraged Harry, who wanted payback for the humiliation the rebels had inflicted on him through this ambush, the Northern forces on all fronts rammed their way through the weaker defensive positions that were left utterly horrified and confused by the sudden loss of all the major barriers.

Predictably, most of them broke upon seeing the sheer magnitude of the assaults being launched upon them, and the Northern forces quickly swarmed over the rest as they quickly secured the major hospital near Victoria Square and then stormed the square proper.

Thousands of rebels died in the action, with thousands more being captured after they realized their brief rebellion had come to an end. Those who refused to surrender were killed on the spot, while a contingent, led by Harry and Speirs, stormed the Council House, where the King was being kept under guard.

There was no ceremony to it. As Harry approached the doors, he raised a hand and unleashed a powerful Banishing spell that blew the ornate doors off their hinges and crushed the ambushers that were waiting for them to storm the building. Without hesitation, Harry then drew his pistol and fired a killing shot into the panicking rebels who'd been stunned by his opening salvo.

"No prisoners," he ordered his team as he led the charge, his personal shield managing to deflect three shots from his upper left. A quick hand gesture later and the balcony from which the shooters had been firing exploded into a torrent of blood and body parts. "Find and secure His Majesty, kill the rest."

Speirs seemed uncertain about the order, but complied. "Death to traitors," he confirmed for his men, who also seemed unsure about the order. "They have kidnapped our sovereign and rebelled against his legitimate servants-the punishment is death."

Stoically nodding at the confirmed orders, the soldiers began to clean up after Harry as they moved through the building, killing off any of the rebels found within. Screaming pierced the air as the rebel soldiers found no mercy awaiting them at the hands of the assaulting troopers, who dispatched all those who carried a weapon with alarming stoicism.

The screaming was soon joined by weeping as the non-armed personnel had the memory of the assault burned into their memories with the display of brutality, and yet Harry was not moved one inch as he stormed his way up the stairs, taking casual aim at a begging rebel soldier and dispatching him with one shot. To him, this was revenge for all the men he'd lost trying to secure the king. To him, Bartel had shamed and dishonoured the flag of truce under which the negotiations had been carried out, and this foul backstabbing could only be repaid with death.

More importantly, they had humiliated him.

He raised a hand as he approached another double door and let off a magical blast that tore the doors from their very frames, crushing another group of soldiers who'd probably thought it logical to ambush whoever stormed through. With a vicious glare, he then raised his left arm and snapped his fingers at a rebel militiaman who'd was shaking in his boots at he leveled his weapon at Harry. Less than a second later, the fire spell Harry had loosed on the man blasted right through the window, scattering whatever ashes were left of the doomed soldier.

Harry's inexorable march did not end until he reached two white double doors, the very woodwork of their elegant design more intricate than anything Harry had ever seen. Cross referencing the doors with the layout of the building, he knew that he had reached the main council chambers at last. Beyond this door, he would find the man who'd cost him thousands of men and put his position in the north in jeopardy.

It was also then that Speirs finally caught up with his enraged leader, two fireteams behind him. "Finally caught up with you!" he exclaimed exasperated. Had Harry bothered to turn, he would have noticed the haunted look in Speirs' eyes, despite the apparent wellness of his voice. "Bloody hell, White, you can't just go charging in alone!"

Harry didn't bother to deign Speirs with a reply, instead raising his hand again, a pulse of magic ready to break apart the door before him. Only Speirs' timely intervention in the form of a hand clasped on his arm and pulling down prevented Harry from battering down the door again.

"Are you mad?" Speirs exclaimed, glad the ongoing firefights throughout the area would drown him out from prying ears behind the doorway. Even the soldiers behind Speirs seemed a little uncertain about what Harry was about to do. "The King is in there, White, or did you forget?" he hissed angrily. "What if that treacherous snake put His Majesty in front of the door?"

Harry's eyes snapped to Speirs angrily. "Fine!" he hissed right back, his rage threatening to overflow. "What do _you_ propose we do?" he demanded. "That bastard cost us thousands of lives, Speirs! I want his head on a pike!"

Speirs stared his colleague down as the two generals silently duked it out with their willpower. One advocated a more cautious route, while the other drowned in his need for vengeance. In the end, however, Speirs won out, his cool-headedness finally reaching Harry through his haze of rage.

"Send Wenshi in," Speirs suggested. "Every eye in there has to be on this door," he reminded Harry. "If Wenshi and a team Apparated in, they'd have pretty much free reign of the room."

Harry considered the proposal and nodded, frustrated at his own inability to contain his anger. Even worse, others had seen him about to fully give into it, regardless of the potentially disastrous consequences. Raising his hand to his earpiece, he tapped it once, activating the private channel.

"Wenshi," he called.

"_Wenshi copies, General,_" Neville's voice replied.

"Get a team inside the main council chambers. Secure everyone," Harry ordered as he eyed the double doors. "Get me as many prisoners as you can-make sure Bartel is one of them."

"_...Wenshi copies. Insertion in ten minutes. Over and out._"

The line went dead then, and Harry turned his attention back to Speirs. "It's done. Let's end this farce once and for all," he stated firmly as he turned and walked away, leading the group back to a more defensive position.

* * *

Neville frowned at his team as they loaded up on anything they might need during the insertion operation. Harry's orders hadn't been unexpected, but, to his mind, they _were_ late in coming. After all, he had championed the idea of a quick in-and-out op from the beginning. When the ambush had been launched, it was all he could do not to tell his superiors "I told you so."

As it was, the situation was far more precarious now than it would have been if the operation had been called for at the very beginning of the incident. Now, whoever was in that room would be on high alert, and probably with itchy trigger fingers.

Eyeing one of his men, Neville pointed at him casually. "Stevens, grab some flash bangs," he ordered. No harm in being too cautious, after all. A quick deafening charm on themselves and closed eyes, and they'd be fine while the rest of the room was blinded and deafened.

Twirling his wand anxiously in his free hand, Neville considered what little he knew of the layout of the room he and his team would be Apparating into. The very back would obviously be the better Apparating spot, though they'd have to pray that no objects had been placed there unnecessarily, or else rematerializing could have some rather...horrid effects for him and his men.

To that end, he'd requisitioned a fireteam of soldiers near the rear of the building to scout out the windows of the target room. Thankfully, they hadn't seen much in the way of obstructions in the Apparation spot, though thanks to their information, Neville now had a better grasp of the insertion points for all his men.

Neville looked at his small team-ten mages in total, all veterans of the Anglo-Spanish War. All were wand users-Neville didn't trust the wandless mages _not_ to get performance anxiety when the crap hit the fan, as the Muggles say-and had already distinguished themselves as rapid insertion commandos during Operations Hammer and Anvil.

Still, they'd never faced opponents with their backs to the wall before, so Neville was understandably concerned about the mission success odds. Especially since a hostage was involved this time.

"All set, sir," one of the mages called out to him.

Neville snapped out of his thoughts and nodded to the man, taking out the quick-developing polaroid pictures of the Apparation area and handing a specific one to each member of his team. "These are your Apparation points," he briefed them. "Total enemy strength inside the room are estimated to be twenty hostiles, including the traitor Patrick Henry Bartel. In addition, the King is being held hostage there, even if perhaps he is not aware of his status."

"Our goal," he continued, pleased to see that his team was already committing the photos to memory. "Is to secure the King and capture as many of the hostiles within the room, with special emphasis on Bartel. I'm guessing Command has special plans for him," he added with a dark smirk. He was greeted with mirthless chuckles from his team.

"Laramie, James," Neville addressed the two mages. "You two will be in charge of securing the King. I want a quick, in-and-out extraction, understood?" he asked.

"Yes, sir!"

Neville nodded, pleased. "Good. The rest of you lot will help me take down the hostiles," he added, nodding to the rest of his teammates. "We leave in five minutes, so whatever last minute preparations you need, get them done now."

"Yes, sir!"

Within seconds, Neville was left alone, his gaze returning to the building which he'd be assaulting. He had a bad feeling about the mission festering in his gut, and no matter how much he reviewed the operational procedure, he couldn't help the slight pessimism that infected his thoughts.

"Penny for your thoughts?" asked a female voice.

Glancing back over his shoulder, Neville was surprised to see Elicia standing there with a sad smile. The poor woman had arrived in Birmingham as part of William's reinforcements once it had become clear that the situation had gone to hell. With her expertise on hand, they had managed to somehow salvage quite a few tanks, though they served as little more than fortified defensive turrets at this point. She had also been consulted for the underground assault plan, though mostly to provide a viability report.

"Well, right now I'm surprised you're still here," Neville admitted, figuring the woman would have left Birmingham the moment it was obvious that the Northern Forces had regained the advantage.

Elicia kept up her sad smile as she carefully navigated the debris on the road. "I would have left," she admitted. "But I think Harry wouldn't benefit from my absence," she added.

Neville nodded slowly, fully prepared to agree that having the blonde scientist around had definitely prevented his commander in chief from undertaking some of the more reckless and vengeful plans he'd concocted. He only wished she had been here sooner-maybe then the ambush could've been prevented.

"So, mind telling me what's eating at you?" she asked again as she reached his side, smiling kindly at him.

Neville sighed as he rubbed the back of his head. "Just a bad feeling," he confessed. "Nothing specific-just a general feeling."

Elicia gave him a comforting pat on the arm. "It's alright to be nervous," she assured him. "This is a pretty big job you got landed with."

"It shouldn't have been," Neville blurted out then, surprising himself at his candour. "This shouldn't have taken so long!"

Elicia seemed pleased, however, that he was opening up to her-as though she'd known his uneasiness was nothing quite as single-faceted as procedural jitters. "You resent Harry for having walked into this situation." It wasn't a question.

Neville nodded slowly. "I told him," he said through gritted teeth. "I told him to let me take a team in there," he pointed to the target building, "and get the King to safety. But he had to make a parade out of this, and here we are!"

Elicia nodded along, her expression still serene, if a little sad, as she rubbed the side of Neville's clothed arm soothingly. "You know, I slapped him the moment Harry and I got some alone time," she told him suddenly after a moment of silence following his outburst. She giggled as Neville turned his head to look at her in shock. "I did," she confirmed again. "I felt...like you, really. Felt he'd let his ego take over and compromised his judgment."

"W-What'd he say?" Neville asked, a little surprised _anyone_ had gotten away with slapping Harry Potter.

Elicia smiled at him. "He apologized," she said, sounding very pleased with the fact that he'd done so. "Over and over. He apologized for his mistakes in letting the Death Eaters pull off the attacks on London, in nearly getting his men killed in Spain, and in walking his people into this ambush," she said sadly as she turned her gaze to the City Council Building.

"Harry is full of regret, Neville," she told him after a moment of silence. "Oh, he loves to put on the rough-and-tough soldier boy act, but do you really think he doesn't mourn the people his mistakes get killed?" she asked, a slight smile forming on her delicate features as she thought of the one man she truly believed to be the love of her life. "He's still just human," she reminded her companion.

Neville stared at Elicia for a moment, finally realizing exactly why William had sent the scientist to the battlefield. It had always struck him as odd that she had been brought over, despite her incredible inventing and salvaging abilities, since there were literally thousands of men in the armed forces who were trained to repair and salvage as needed. Now, however, Neville could see the brilliance in William's decision.

Elicia was Harry's rock. She grounded the brilliant commander like no one else could. Maybe it was because they had grown up together, or because they had been romantically linked for so long, but no one understood Harry better than the blonde woman before him.

If there was anyone who could deflate Harry's ego, it was clear that said person was Elicia.

Still, one thing bugged him...

"Why'd you two break up?" he asked bluntly. It was a question that had been festering in his mind since he'd joined up with Harry. "I know you're not officially together anymore, but you're still lovers. Why is that?"

Elicia smiled sadly, her eyes becoming downcast. "Harry's destiny isn't one that crosses with mine," she admitted before looking back up. "He's meant for such great things...some horrible, some incredible...but the woman who stands next to him has to be able to weather all of it," she explained. "For such an extraordinary man, only an extraordinary woman will do. I can help him for now, but I don't think I can shoulder that burden in its entirety," she confessed.

"You give yourself too little credit," Neville opined. In his eyes, Elicia was perhaps one of the strongest women he knew-after all, she had lied right to the faces of two mages to hide her paramour, had stood by him during his time in Spain, in jail, and as a budding warlord. Neville knew of quite a few women who would've folded long ago.

"You give me too much," Elicia riposted with a sad smile. "Harry knows he has my heart, and I know I have his-that's good enough for me, even if means I don't get to wear fancy titles or dresses," she said, a distinct measure of conviction lacing her voice.

Neville was about to say something, giving her a comforting smile, but a voice breaking into their conversation caught his attention.

"Sir, the team is assembled and ready to go!" one of his teammates called over.

Glancing at the watch on his wrist, Neville's eyebrows shot up as he realized it'd been over ten minutes since he'd dismissed the team for final preparations. Apparently, they'd given him and Elicia some space-which he appreciated-but had interjected once it became apparent that the conversation could drag on.

Elicia, too, seemed to come to that conclusion and smiled at the soldier, who blushed slightly and looked away in embarrassment. "It's alright," she then told Neville. "Go do your work. Harry will appreciate it," she told him before walking back towards the main camp.

Neville watched the woman leave with renewed appreciation. Up until now, he'd always seen her as just another colleague and the woman who kept Harry Potter's bed warm. The conversation, however, had opened up a whole new dimension of the Eisenheim woman to him, and what he saw surprised him. While not a soldier, or even part of the military in any way, Neville could see the strength of will that kept Elicia at Harry's side, through both good and bad. Add her looks and intelligence to the mix, and Neville could see why their commander had fallen for her so hard.

Unfortunately, he could also begin to see why she herself felt no confidence in staying by Harry's side forever. She was, simply put, too kind. Certainly, he'd heard how she used to bully Harry around-when said person wasn't around and Sirius and the others traded stories-back in their school days, but there truly was an underlying sense of compassion that dwarfed many a man and woman. Perhaps so much so that she could barely handle the horrors that Harry and his forces inflicted on the world.

Neville sighed. It was a pity, but unfortunately it was also not his problem. Drawing his wand from its holster and stretching his arms, he then proceeded to stretch his neck before finally giving a sigh of resignation. Behind him, he could hear the footsteps of his team as they approached him and stood waiting, their wands similarly drawn.

"Right, then," Neville said as his expression hardened and his eyes glinted with barely suppressed battle lust. "On my mark," he ordered. "Three. Two. One. MARK!"

With nary a sound, fifteen mages disappeared into thin air.

* * *

Neville felt it again, and it made him grin viciously.

What, one might ask? The battle lust, naturally. That primal, adrenaline-fueled rush a warrior gets when they throw themselves into a fight. That feeling of wild abandon where logic takes a backseat and instinct, honed by countless battles, takes over.

The moment he appeared in the meeting room where the rebels were holed up, Neville felt it again.

Before anyone could react to his presence, he had already whipped up his wand and blasted one of the rebels close to a man sitting weakly in a chair-the King, Neville recognized-out of the way, the second guard being dispatched with equal brutality just as the rebels began to realize they were under attack.

Without wasting time, he launched himself at one of the defenders, an insane grin on his face, thoroughly enjoying the thrill of combat once more. Lashing out with his free hand, he rammed his fist into the rebel's face and thoroughly landed the man on his back. Without breaking stride, he then moved towards the next closest target, barely aware that his companions had successfully Apparated into the room and were following up on his opening salvo. Two pops then sounded out, though Neville paid them no attention.

Bringing up his wand, he stunned one of the rebels in the face before twisting his body about just in time to avoid getting shot dead, and then ramming his steel-toed combat boot into the man's side, probably breaking a couple of ribs and hurting the man's liver.

Again, in one smooth motion, Neville dropped his raised foot away from him and stayed crouched just as a panicking rebel fired above his head, accidentally killing one of his comrades. With a vicious smile, Neville brought up his wand and fired a blasting curse, shooting the unfortunate rebel straight out of the window.

Feeling someone coming up behind him, Neville spun on his heel to the side and narrowly missed getting bludgeoned with a rifle butt. "Missed," he taunted the rebel before grabbing the back of the man's head and ramming it into the floor, knocking the man out and probably causing some skull fractures. "Sleep tight," he added with a victorious smile before turning and launching himself at another rebel.

No matter how many times he did it, Neville couldn't believe the rush he felt while fighting. As he tore through the rebel defenders-getting nicked here and there due to his utter loss of conscious pain-he reveled in the feeling of using his magic and body to crush his opponents. The first time it happened, he'd been scared to death of himself-after all, what did it say about him that he loved fighting? However, after a serious berating from Harry, Neville had begun to understand that this was merely one aspect of himself-not the whole thing. Sure, he loved to fight, but he also loved to nurture, and cultivate-hence his love of Herbology.

Reconciling his seemingly twin nature had done wonders for him. He no longer hesitated when fighting, something that had been a problem during his Auror days. He could delve into a death match with laughable ease, and he knew Harry was pleased with his development. The fact that he'd been chosen to lead this strike force itself was no small measure of the trust Harry and his colleagues had placed in him.

It thrilled Neville to know he was well on his way to becoming the ultimate weapon he aspired to be. Harry himself had remarked recently that judging by his development, Neville would overtake him as a fighter very soon-but then, Neville had to acknowledge that with his ascent into higher leadership positions, Harry was, more and more, becoming unable to take to the field personally, as he'd done in Spain. That meant his spot as strongest was empty, and that was a place Neville was determined to get.

Taking a moment to take stock of the situation, Neville noted that he had at least three team members down, and while the fighting was still very much in their favour, Neville knew that with the King gone-it must have happened as planned, he guessed-any further self-imposed restrictions in the use of magic was unnecessary.

"DOWN!" he roared as he raised his wand straight up. His team, well used to taking orders, did as he commanded immediately, throwing themselves flat on the ground just as Neville pulled off his spell. "_STUPEFY MAXIMA!_"

A pulse of magic erupted from the tip of his wand, ramming into the defenders and knocking them unconscious, the spell fulfilling its purpose. With the defenders down, Neville watched in silence as his teammates got back to their feet, at which point he raised his wand and gave a triumphant howl, which his team reciprocated. It was a tradition he'd imposed on his strike team after Operation Hammer-in his opinion, performing such an action after a successful mission made the soldiers foment greater _esprit de corps_. So far, he hadn't been proven wrong.

When the celebratory yells were over, Neville lowered his wand and holstered it, an action not imitated by his comrades as they moved to secure the rebel defenders and their weapons. A couple of them broke off from that duty to tend to the three casualties they had sustained.

"Report," Neville ordered one of those attending the bodies of their fallen comrades.

"Three dead," reported the brunette mage as she closed the eyes of one of their comrades. "Jamison, Lee, and Williamson."

Neville closed his eyes and gave a silent prayer for the three killed mages. All three had been good soldiers and good friends. "I'll notify their families," Neville stated as he opened his eyes. "Wounded?"

"Nothing serious. We were lucky they chose not to risk gunfire," the mage remarked as she pulled off the dog tags hanging limply from the dead mage's neck. "I imagine if we'd attacked frontally, we'd have suffered heavier casualties."

Neville nodded in agreement. '_No kidding_,' he thought, glad that Harry's attempted frontal assault had been held back by Speirs. Judging from the way the defenders had been aligned, they had prepared all their gunfire for such an event-which surprised Neville. He would've thought that Bartel would worry about the windows too, but it seemed the traitor had guessed that Harry would act recklessly. If it weren't for the fact that the man had nearly gotten everyone killed, Neville would've admired the man's ingenuity.

Speaking of which...

"Anyone got eyes on Bartel?" he called out to his team. There were a few grunted negatives all around, causing Neville to frown. The whole building had been locked down-so where was he? He couldn't have escaped the tight army cordon, either, so logically he _had_ to be in the building.

Taking out his picture of the traitor, for identification purposes, Neville committed the features to memory before personally taking a look at all the rebel bodies. He even went to the window and called out to the defending Northern forces to identify the man he'd shot out the window-not Bartel, unfortunately.

Neville frowned even deeper now. What on earth was going on?

* * *

**Birmingham, United Kingdom, January 12th, 2011...**

"So...you are Harry Potter...or is it Francis White?" wheezed the crippled King from the comfort of one of the few high-back chairs that had managed to survive the assault. "You're...shorter than I imagined."

Harry, kneeling before the king, couldn't help the amused half-smile that crept onto his face at the comment. "Appearances can be deceiving, Your Majesty," he stated simply.

There was a tired chuckle from the king, who nonetheless nodded in agreement. "Quite so. Quite so," he agreed, his arm briefly twitching. "Take myself...I cannot move from this seat, and yet I am ostensibly your King."

"You _are_ my king, Your Majesty," Harry replied humbly, his head bowed. He noted that the man seemed to forego the use of the royal pronoun, which interested him greatly.

"Am I?" asked the tired monarch, the stress of the past few weeks taking its toll on his crippled body. "Do you know why I asked to speak to you in private, Harry Potter?"

"I do not presume to know what your thoughts are, Your Majesty," Harry stated. "I am but your loyal servant."

The king was quiet for a moment as he eyed the kneeling man before him. While his body was all but destroyed, his mind had not suffered since the attack that had killed his family and crippled him for life. "You are here because you want my throne, Harry Potter," the king stated perceptively. The moment Harry's head shot up in surprise, the king knew he'd aced his educated guess.

"Your Majesty?" Harry tried to cover up his mistake with confused ignorance.

Unfortunately, the king was no fool-surprisingly, however, he was also not mad. "Do not try to hide it-it is plain on your face," the king stated wearily, causing Harry to look back down in a tardy attempt at hiding his thoughts. "Do you know why, then, I have not called for my guards to come here and arrest you?"

Harry remained silent at the query, preferring not to say anything that might incriminate him further. He'd already miscalculated twice-once in failing to prevent the ambush, and now once again in underestimating the king's perceptiveness. No one else had managed to glean his ambition; those who knew he coveted power only knew as much as he told them. His investors, the Goblins, didn't even know how far his ambition had grown over the years, and this man-this crippled, tired man, king of a dying nation-had seen right through him.

"I want you to answer a question for me," the king explained after a moment of silence. "Why? Why should I hand my throne over to you?"

Harry blinked in surprise, his head shooting back up as he realized he was being given a chance to explain himself. Even knowing that he coveted his throne, the king was allowing him to explain why he would be a better ruler-even though he was, technically, just as bad as Bartel!

It took him a moment to collect his thoughts, but thankfully the king didn't seem to lack in patience-being pretty much quadriplegic probably forced the monarch to develop his sense of patience quite rapidly. When he was ready, Harry took in a deep breath, once again realizing he was taking a risky gamble by telling the man anything.

"Because I can do what no one else can," he stated. "I can bring this continent together."

The king blinked at the answer, honestly not expecting it. "You...wish to unify Europe?" he asked slowly, as if doubting what he'd heard.

Harry nodded, surprising the monarch. "Not at first, no," he then admitted. "First, I'd wanted to be Prime Minister. I wanted the power to get the Ministry to back off, since they harassed us all my childhood. I thought...with the power of Parliament and the Crown behind me, I could stop them from bullying those of us who want nothing to do with them, and just want normal lives."

"That changed, I imagine," the king noted.

Harry nodded. "Yes, Your Majesty," he confirmed. "After the ambush at Palencia, I realized that no matter where I went, there would be a Ministry waiting for me-no doubt linked to the British Ministry and waiting for a chance to ship me back. It didn't matter if I was just a soldier, or a civilian, even. The moment I used my natural gifts, they would jump me and ship me to prison."

"So you wished to become head of the nation to stop them from doing so?" asked the king.

"No," Harry replied with a smile. "I still felt content with the position of PM, Your Majesty. After all, they can't very well attack the head of government of a foreign nation, no matter where I am," he pointed out.

The king nodded again. "A fine point, Harry Potter," he agreed. "And yet, am I correct in assuming that this conclusion of yours changed again after the attacks?"

Harry was silent for a moment before nodding. "Yes, Your Majesty," he confirmed. "The attacks made me realize that magical society is decrepit and stagnant. Actually, I think I always knew that...but the riots, the attacks...they just proved it irrevocably," he stated. "Mages have strutted around for hundreds of years, using their magic to keep themselves hidden and, when they feel like it, warping people's minds to ensure they stay hidden. The gifts of my kind are powerful, I don't deny that, and it is true that they are destructive-but so are they nurturing and healing. How many diseases could we fix with magic? How many breaks in technology could be achieved? How many villages, cut off from water and electricity and the simplest of infrastructural developments, could we save from imminent destruction?" he asked, his voice becoming laced with passionate zeal as he finally let out what had always been weighing down on him.

"I know there were reasons the two societies were separated," Harry acknowledged, making the king nod, pleased with the fact that Harry wasn't being totally one-sided. "I know that, up until now, such a merger would've been ridiculous. But that's why I had to act, Your Majesty," Harry stated firmly. "Now is the best time of all to bring our worlds together, and I know I can do it!"

There was silence for a moment as the king contemplated the man before him. The monarch's face was inscrutable, making Harry quite nervous. When the king opened his mouth to speak, Harry had a bad feeling he would pass a negative sentence on his dream.

"...You are quite remarkable, Harry Potter," the king stated, making Harry tense up. This was it-the critical, make-or-break moment. "You are intelligent, brave...perhaps a little reckless at times, but then what great man isn't?" he asked rhetorically with a weak chuckle. Harry felt his spirits rise just a bit at that.

"I cannot, however, say I have much faith in your dream," the monarch then added, his expression a little sad, once again managing to make Harry feel a chill run down his spine. "But perhaps this is a feeling clouded by the memory of what your kind did to my family, my country, and I."

Harry cringed-there was no escaping that truth. As much as Harry championed himself as a defender of the non-magical population, he was still very much a mage, and thousands of people had died at the hands of his spells. "But I do have faith in _you_," the king then added, surprising Harry.

"Y-Your Majesty?" asked Harry, a little confused by the declaration.

The king looked away from the kneeling mage, focusing his attention instead on the war-torn spectacle on the other side of the window. "Whatever your ideals are, whatever your goals...you are one who can change things, Harry Potter," said the monarch. "I won't call it fate, or destiny...your choices made you into the man you are today, and I believe those choices will lead you to great things. Whether those are good or bad...I do not know, but that is a bet I will take."

Returning his gaze to Harry, the king sighed. "I am not long for this world," he informed Harry, who knew well of the king's decaying health-it was no secret, to be honest. "And with my death will end a thousand years of rule by my family. That will be your moment," he stated. "When I die, the throne of the United Kingdom will remain empty, and that is when you must seize it, before someone else does."

"Your Majesty...you _wish_ for me to seize power?" asked Harry, a little apprehensive at how understanding the monarch was-he would've thought the man would guard his power jealously, as many others would.

The king surprised him, yet again, by nodding. "The whole world is locked in a cycle of suspicion and hatred, fostered by our ancestors and made worse with the last World War," he stated. "And it shall never change, unless something in the _equation_ changes. So here's my gamble: I will put _you_ in the equation."

Harry remained silent as the king elaborated his vision.

"You are a spark that comes once every few lifetimes, Harry Potter," the king opined as he leaned forward as much as his decrepit body allowed him. "Most men covet the Prime Minister's position and are satisfied, but not you. You covet my throne. You want it for the power it wields, and through it change the world to your image. I don't know if you can do it, but I'll take the risk," he stated. "I just have three requests; will you hear them?" he asked.

Harry didn't need to think about it. "I will, Your Majesty," he stated with utmost respect and reverence. How else could he act before the man who had just ordered him to seize power? Who, being able to bring him down with one word, had declared his support? Only the highest respect would do, and Harry was humble enough to bow his head before the crippled king.

The monarch smiled wearily, his body finally getting exhausted. "First, allow me to die with my crown," the king said tiredly. "If I must perish, let me do so in a manner befitting the line of William the Conqueror; proud and in power."

Harry raised his hand to his chest and bowed slightly. "I will, Your Majesty," he vowed. If the man was willing to step aside while Harry made his preparations to seize the throne, the least he could do was wait until the man was dead before doing it.

"Second, let none know of our arrangement," said the king. "If you are to replace me, then let others not follow you out of loyalty to me, but to you."

"I will, Your Majesty," Harry repeated.

"Thank you," the king thanked him with a smile. "Though I fear the third request will be much harder to fulfill."

"Speak your wish, Your Majesty," Harry comforted him. "I will not balk before any task. It is the least I can do."

The king eyed him for a moment before nodding and saying, grimly, "The third request..."

He paused again, took a deep breath, and then said,

"I want you to destroy the United Kingdom."


	10. Chapter IX: Take a Break

_**AN: **Woot, might just be getting back into my groove. At least, let's hope so._

_Anyway, this chapter is possibly the shortest one yet, but I blame that mainly on the fact that I didn't want to cram the "Peacetime Arc" all in one chapter. Though, I say arc...but really, it's more like a couple of chapters-so more like an interlude. In any case, don't expect much action here-mostly character growth._

_Also, a quick note: I have updated several of the previous chapters in an attempt to correct several mistakes pointed out by helpful reviewers. This includes correcting terminology, adding scenes, or just fixing grammar. As always, help in these aspects are eternally welcome-though **do **try to be nice about it? No one likes a flamer._

* * *

**Liverpool, United Kingdom, January 30****th****, 2011…**

If Harry had ever thought that securing the king under his power would resolve the conflict between him and the Chiefs, he was sadly mistaken.

Not two days after the Birmingham Incident, as it was now known, the Chiefs of Staff, hearing of Harry Potter's victory over Bartel's forces, dispatched a massive force to retrieve the king form Harry's protection. Given the size of the detachment, and Taylor's presence commanding it, it didn't take a genius for Harry to realize they were meaning to take back the monarch whatever the cost.

Knowing his depleted forces could in no way stand up to the Chiefs, Harry ordered a full retreat back to his territories in the north, where he knew they'd be (relatively) safe. At the very least, he was sure the Chiefs wouldn't risk launching an all out war against him just yet—not with the midlands undergoing total anarchy.

Nonetheless, having the king in his possession did change things for Harry—for one, the capital was officially declared relocated to Liverpool, not coincidentally Harry's seat of power. With that came the unexpected surge of migrants from throughout the British isles into the northern territories—mostly loyalists or refugees who saw Harry's northern lands as being far more stable than the south, Scotland, or Northern Ireland.

Naturally, this brought a great many headaches to Harry's administration, as they were forced to strain their infrastructure to deal with the sudden boost in population. Already, the rationing measures they'd imposed at the beginning of the crisis had to be made even more severe while resources were scrounged.

Cars were all but outlawed, given that what valuable petrol was left in storage was all needed for military operations and public transportation. That in itself had caused quite a few public protest marches, though William was able to successfully talk them down after many days of negotiation, resulting in the requisition of more buses for public transportation.

At this point, however, Harry intervened with a brilliant idea—expanding on the roles of mages in the infrastructure. While those military mages not on active duty had already been deployed to increase crop production throughout the northern territories—thereby successfully staving off a food crisis—all military mages were now being deployed to deal with the construction of additional infrastructure to better accommodate the rising population.

To that end, Harry saw the king as a blessing, since his presence as a legitimizing factor in his government meant that the Chiefs had to tread carefully, or else come across as traitors and lose whatever support they were skimming off of. That meant a reprieve, and Harry sought to use it to his full advantage.

Thus, military mages were deployed to every corner of the northern territories, using their powers to repair and rebuild, where necessary, the infrastructure of the region. New roads were built, old ones were repaired, sewer systems were upgraded to deal with the greater population, and residential buildings rose up as quickly as necessary to meet the demand from the newcomers to the region. The only thing they were unable to help with, in truth, was electricity, for which Harry deployed every engineer in his forces to deal with.

Even then, however, the administration of the north knew they were facing a major power issue—the technology of the day simply failed to provide a cost-effective method of providing power that didn't rely on their dwindling supply of petrol or biofuel, whose raw materials were needed to feed the growing population.

The most obvious solution was, naturally, to cause rolling blackouts to manage the power being supplied. Yet, everyone with half a brain knew that this would prove to be greatly unpopular, bringing everyone to terms with the fact that they needed a new method of creating electric power.

Which was why when Elicia asked to meet the Royal Council—Parliament's temporary replacement in absence of elected officials following the London Massacre—none of them were prepared for her announcement.

"Flue powder?" asked the king confusedly. "What does powdered disease have to do with the current problem, Miss Eisenheim?"

"Floo powder, Your Majesty," Harry corrected patiently from the monarch's side. "F-L-O-O. It's a material the mages use in their mass transportation system," he explained. "It allows for near-instantaneous teleportation from one fixed location to another."

"And you propose we use this…Floo powder to create the same for the populace?" asked Joshua as he eyed the female scientist standing in the gap of the crescent table at which the Council was seated.

Elicia shook her head, her blonde curls swaying with the movement. "Not at all, Lord Minister Warwick," she addressed him by his formal title, now that he was officially invested as Minister of the Masses. "Rather, this powder," she brought up a transparent zip-lock bag full of silver powder. "may be our solution to the energy crisis."

"How so?" asked Sirius, a little excited to hear, for the first time, the results of the research he'd been funding for the past few years. Ever since its inception before the Anglo-Spanish war had started, Elicia had been jealously guarding its results, leading Sirius to believe that perhaps the experiments had gone nowhere.

Apparently he was wrong.

"After a year and a half of research, I discovered the way Floo powder works in regards to the mass transportation system known as the Floo Network," she stated as she went from seat to seat and handed each member of the Council—Joshua, Sirius, William, Harry, Curtis, Speirs, and the King—a folder containing her results. Almost immediately, all of them opened the folder and began skimming its contents. "Basically, the Floo Network operates based on three distinct factors: One," she raised a finger. "Fixed transportation locations based on runic apparatuses to ground the transportation sequence. Two," she raised another finger. "The presence of a magical gene in the transported person, thereby locking out anyone non-magical from ever using it; and three, " she raised a third finger. "Floo powder."

"Of these, Floo Powder," she continued, "is perhaps the most crucial. It is not, however, a derivative of the fuel crystal, as we had initially been led to believe," she informed the council. "But rather a powdered form of the Floo plant—at least, initially."

"Initially?" asked Harry curiously as he stopped his reading.

Elicia nodded. "Floo plants, while able to be grown, nonetheless take time in doing so, and mass amounts of it need to be powdered to create the appropriate exothermic reaction needed to fuel the magical transportation sequence," she explained. "This made it highly inefficient. As such, I have discovered that modern day Floo powder is actually a compound of powdered fuel crystal and the extract of the Floo plant."

"So?" asked Speirs, a little out of his depth with the conversation. He hadn't even bothered to read past the introduction of the brief. "Sorry if I come across as too blunt, but I still don't see how any of this fixes our problems."

Elicia eyed the man for a moment before smiling and nodding in understanding. "Please be patient, General," she urged him. "I will be getting to that," she added before returning to her train of thought. "This compound is several orders of magnitude more powerful than the original Floo powder derived from the ground up plant," she continued. "Which, as distances between fixed Floo locations increased, became greatly necessary."

"What changed?" asked William—he'd been keeping up with her exposition without any trouble whatsoever, unlike his military colleague.

"The fuel crystal," she answered, motioning for her assistant—a pale, young man in a lab coat much like hers—to bring forward a piece of it for the Council to see. "What the Floo plant lacks, the fuel crystal provides—raw energy. Much like magnesium, the fuel crystal is capable of high-intensity exothermic reactions when ignited. The problem, however, is that in its natural state, the exothermic reaction in question is massive and uncontrollable, and very much non-magical."

"Meaning a big boom, I imagine," Curtis observed wryly, her arms now crossed under her breasts, the folder lying open before her. She'd read through it in record time, and didn't pass up on the opportunity to give Speirs a gloating smirk. "Not very useful for transportation."

"Not in its present state, no," agreed Elicia. "Which is where the Floo plant extract comes in. With its magical properties, it contains the energy output of the crystal as well as gives it its magical properties. With the runic apparatuses functioning as a sort of catcher's mitt for the magical energies of the Floo powder, this means the uncontrollable burst simply propels you, much like a catapult would, towards your destination."

"At the risk of repeating myself, how does this solve our energy crisis?" Speirs asked again, glaring at Curtis as he did so.

"In its mass manufactured form, Floo powder burns quickly," Elicia explained. "However, I have discovered that, by increasing the dosage of raw Floo extract to the compound, we can drastically lower the burn rate to our purposes. I have, in fact, designed a suitable machine to extract electricity from vapour produced by solid Floo powder rods dipped in water coolant," she elaborated. That clinched it. Everyone's attention was fully on her now.

"Have you tested it?" asked Joshua, his stare betraying the rising excitement he was feeling. "Does it work?"

Elicia made a so-so gesture with her hand. "We've managed to successfully test a smaller version of the design in our lab," she stated. "Its electric generation was also well within success parameters. However, there is no real telling how it will perform on a larger scale until we test it appropriately," she warned.

Even with her warning, however, Elicia could practically see the gleam in the eyes of the Royal Council as she all but handed them a solution to the budding energy crisis.

"Excellent work, Miss Eisenheim," the king praised her with a weary smile. "I dare say if this works, the people shall thank you from the bottom of their hearts."

Elicia blushed at the praise from the crippled monarch, only getting worse as the rest of the Council clapped and added in their own words of praise. Harry, in particular, gave her a look of such pride she feared her cheeks would spontaneously combust.

"The appropriate construction crews will be assigned to aid you in building the functional-sized prototype, Miss Eisenheim," Joshua told her then after eying Sirius, who'd nodded back. He then looked over to Harry. "I assume Military Mages will also be requisitioned for the project?" he asked.

Harry nodded. "Of course—we must put full effort behind this project," he agreed, Speirs and Curtis nodding in agreement. This wasn't just a lifesaver for the civilian population, after all—the more of their precious petrol reserves they could save, the better for the war machine. "We shall have three squads of mages ready by tomorrow."

The king nodded, smiling as affably as he could as he presided over such smoothly-proceeding discussions. He had heard many a horror tale from his grandparents and parents regarding state discussions, and was pleasantly surprised to see the group working together so well. Of course, it was only later that he'd find out that his Royal Council was, in fact, pretty much made up solely of Harry Potter's closest confidantes.

"Thank you for your hard work, Miss Eisenheim," the king thanked her sincerely. "You are dismissed."

With an appropriate curtsy before the august gathering, Elicia nodded at her assistant and proceeded to clear out her presentation props from the room; only once the door closed did the Council renew their discussions again.

"It was fortunate that we had the laboratory transferred to Liverpool prior to the Birmingham Incident," Sirius opined as he straightened the sheets of paper in front of him. "Otherwise, there'd be no telling how long it would have been before we could evacuate its contents from Grimmauld Place without alerting the Chiefs."

"Agreed," concurred Harry. "This is just but one solution to one problem, however—let's not forget that," he reminded the Council before they slipped into satisfied complacence. "Speirs, what's the word on Nottinghamshire?"

The man beside him coughed as he straightened up and picked up the appropriate dossier from its place on the table. "Rebels have completely overtaken the region," he reported. "They're completely refusing to acknowledge Crown authority, due to what they claim to be mage-induced mind control in the government."

"Sounds like the same tired line from the London Riots," Joshua sighed, referring to the post-Great Reveal riots. "Any connection?"

"Nothing quite so organized," Speirs replied. "Rather, it seems that they were just discontent up until Birmingham. The capital's relocation to Liverpool tipped the fence-sitters over the edge."

"Have they declared support for the Chiefs?" asked Curtis.

"Not as far as Xeno has managed to ferret out," Harry replied for Speirs, having reached that portion of the report in his own dossier. "Then again, the man _is_ quite stretched right now. Perhaps we should lift the hiring freeze."

"We're already tight-roping the budget," William pointed out calmly. "The last thing we need is to create an unsustainable deficit, and Elicia's project is already going to cost the state a pretty penny."

"If we had the resources of southern England, this wouldn't be a problem," Curtis grouched. "I say we forget all this nonsense and bring the guns to bear."

"To do so would invite catastrophe," Sirius objected. "We are still just recuperating from Birmingham, and with the Ministry about to topple in the North, we can hardly afford to divert our military forces from our border with the mages."

"The Welsh would be quick to jump into any civil war we spark off, too," William added. "The nationalists in the north would likely try to strike at our capital."

"Then what? We sit on our asses and wait?" Curtis demanded angrily, slamming a fist onto the table. She then glared at Harry, completely ignoring how utterly barbaric her manners were in front of the king. "I thought you had more spine than that, White!" she snarled.

Harry, who had opted to sit out of the age old argument—honestly, a single session didn't go by where Curtis didn't want to ram the North's military might down the Chiefs of Staff's collective throats—now gave his colleague a withering glare in return.

"What forces do you suggest we use to take out an army twice our size, hmm?" he asked her pointedly. "Should we use the remnants of the Liverpudlian regiment? What about the Birmingham's Finest? Maybe the Leeds Battalion would like a shot at the Chiefs."

Curtis winced at the names Harry was throwing at her. Each of the mentioned fighting groups had suffered dearly during the Birmingham Incident. The Liverpudlians, whom she knew Harry had served with practically all his military career, had been one of the hardest hit. He had lost many friends in the fight.

"There's got to be a better way than sitting idle," she protested weakly, unwilling to completely give up.

"Unfortunately, no," Harry said decisively, glad the king had chosen to stay out of this military discussion. "Birmingham weakened us dearly. We must use this breather to rebuild our forces and solidify our grasp in the north. With Ellie's invention, we may even be able to become self-sustaining. Patience is key right now."

"Nothing good ever comes from rushing things, General Curtis," the king wheezed after an uncomfortable pause had come about following Harry's rebuttal. "In fact…have you ever heard of the Trinity test?" he asked the group.

He was met with unanimous negatives—even from Harry and Sirius, both of whom tended to be the most well informed people in the room.

"Neither did I—not until I was raised to the throne," the king admitted as he leaned back, his features weary as he recalled those days. "It was one of the many things my position gave me access to…Project Trinity."

"It was a joint project between us and the Yanks back during the Second World War," he recalled. "Mostly Yank funding and technology…but we helped here and there, mostly with our best and brightest minds."

"What was the project about?" asked Speirs curiously.

"Nuclear weaponry," the king answered after a pause. "It was to be the weapon to end the war," he elaborated before giving a small chuckle. "Of course, that didn't happen. The Yanks got too hasty, pushed too hard…and the scientists failed the test."

The rest of the story needed no telling for everyone in the room, as they could all remember their high school history classes. The Japanese being the only enemy force left standing, the Allies staged a multi-front invasion of the Japanese mainland…with horrendous results.

While the invasion did eventually succeed, the cost had been horrifying.

To this day, veterans of the Invasion of Japan refused to speak of it.

Thus, hearing that there had been an initiative to spare the world the horrors of that botched operation was shocking to the Royal Council—especially the military half. After all, who knew how the world might have been different if Trinity had succeeded?

Sufficiently grasping the magnitude of the lesson invoked, Curtis nodded at Harry, pale-faced. "I…guess you're right," she reluctantly conceded. "Rebuild, then conquer."

Harry eyed the king for a moment, only half-listening to Curtis' words. The way the monarch had interfered with the discussion had been skilfully timed and with precise results, belying a sense of perception he had yet again underestimated from the crippled king.

Not for the first time since the king had elicited a promise from Harry, the mage general wondered who it was that was using whom.

* * *

**Netherley, United Kingdom, February 20****th****, 2011…**

"It's good to see you again, Ellie."

Elicia smiled at her companion as she brought up her teacup and sipped from it, enjoying the warm brew. "It _has_ been a long time, hasn't it, John?" she agreed as she set her cup back down on the table.

John Lyles, one of her and Harry's oldest friends in the world, smiled wearily at the pretty blonde. "How's Francis been?" he asked.

Elicia eyed her friend for a moment. Even after all this time, he still refused to call Harry by his birth name, having known him all his life as Francis White. In a way, it was John's method of keeping their shared past at Liverpool College alive.

"You know him," she said with a wry smile. "Plotting away, trying to rule the world…"

John chuckled tiredly before drinking from his own cup. "He always did have his head in the clouds," he agreed as he set the cup back down. Sitting back, the man folded his hands on his lap and closed his eyes, enjoying the afternoon breeze. It was a good choice of his to pick an outdoor teahouse, as it turned out, even though it was still mid-winter. Thankfully, the day had been rather warm throughout—a rarity during English winters.

"He misses you," Elicia informed her friend. "He misses his oldest friend."

"And I miss him," John admitted as he opened his eyes and gave Elicia a tired smile. This was a discussion they both knew would not end the way they wanted to, but had to be done. "But he can't expect me to get involved with all the shite he's started, Ellie. I'm a married man—I've got a son to look after."

"Baron Warwick is married and with children," Elicia pointed out, smiling at the mental image of the stiff upper-lip Baron's two daughters. To her pleasant surprise, they were far more relaxed than their father. "And he's still involved."

"He's also a noble, and sort of a wanker, from what I've heard," John countered with a wry smirk. "And he loves that kind of crap. I don't."

Elicia sighed as she looked around, taking in the sights of the sleepy, boring little suburb that John had moved to following Harry's release from prison. "You could still visit," she tried another route. "Maybe just drop by for a chat—goodness knows William could use someone like you to loosen up!" she said with a giggle at the end.

John laughed at that one. He still remembered meeting Harry's brother for the first time—he'd had a good laugh at Harry and Elicia's expense. "I don't think anything short of a good shag could get that boy to loosen the stick up his arse," he said with a rueful grin. "And besides, you don't think I've tried to get in touch? Francis is always moving about—makes it hard on a bloke to 'drop in', as you say."

Elicia had to concede victory there. Even now, when military operations had all but ground to a halt, Harry was still on the move all the time, constantly giving presence to all of the major projects his administration was performing in the north. If there was a major construction site lagging behind, he was there. If a new hospital was being inaugurated, he was there. Heck, he dropped by the construction site of her experimental Fuel Crystal Energy (FCE) Facility almost every other day, just to glare at the backs of his mages so they'd work faster and more efficiently.

"The life of a leader is never quite still, is it?" John asked rhetorically before finishing the contents of his cup. "You know, I always knew Francis would go places," he remarked.

Elicia smiled, thinking back to her Liverpool College days. "I guess I always did, too," she admitted, eliciting a wry grin from John.

"You mean, after you decided you wanted to jump his bones, not bash his head in?" he asked with a saucy wink.

Elicia burst out into a laugh at the remark. "Oh…" she finally said after regaining her breath. "Oh my…those were good days. I can't believe how much we used to _bicker_!"

John chuckled. "If you two don't now, I'm worried," he said before helping himself to one of the complimentary biscuits.

Elicia waved away the concern. "Oh please…with the way he is? Of _course_ we still argue. Someone has to keep him grounded," she said with a smile before finishing her now-lukewarm tea. "How's Annie doing, by the way?"

John smiled at the mention of his wife. "She's doing well. Stays at home with little Johnny while I work. We do take turns, though—she's part of some sort of women's group here." he told his friend before taking out his wallet from his back pocket and picking out his family picture and showing it to her. "Took that one maybe a week ago."

Elicia smiled longingly at the picture. "They look happy," she noted softly.

John eyed his friend in silence as she observed the offered picture. He hadn't been her friend for ages without getting to know how she thought—mostly. "You and Francis still on this on-and-off business?" he asked.

That snapped her out of her daydreams regarding a happy little family with Harry, living in the suburbs. "Sort of," she admitted as she handed the photograph back. "It's complicated."

"No, it's not," John countered as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Ellie, you love the man to death, and he's absolutely nuts about you. Why won't you both just admit it and make honest folk of each other?"

"It's _complicated_," Elicia reiterated through gritted teeth.

The two friends descended into silence after that, though not for long. Sighing, John rubbed his forehead—wrinkles had already started appearing, much to his dismay and Elicia's amusement. "Ellie, you do know what's going to happen if you two don't un-complicate this, right?" he asked her tiredly.

Elicia's downcast eyes told him she did. Still, someone had to voice it.

"Ellie, if it's not you, it's going to be someone else," John said bluntly, hating the fact that he'd basically struck Elicia's weak point with such surgical precision. She needed to realize how precarious her position was, however. "If—and this is a _big_ if—Francis manages to reach the very top, he's going to need a successor. An heir. And that heir has to be acceptable to everyone with power. Now, I'm no politician, but I'm fairly sure that if Francis and you had a child out of wedlock, that kid _wouldn't_ be acceptable."

"What's your point?" Elicia snapped, already knowing full well what it was.

"He's going to get married, Ellie. If not to you, then to someone else," John stated simply. "He knows he has to, you know he has to—hell, _I_ know he has to, and I'm not even part of this gimmick!" he exclaimed.

"I know," she admitted quietly.

"And you're just going to let it happen?" John asked sceptically. "That's not the Elicia Eisenheim I knew back at LC," he remarked.

"Things have changed since then," Elicia pointed out. "We were kids. We had to grow up at some point."

John gave her a sceptical look. "…if you say so," he said noncommittally, realizing she'd never budge.

* * *

**Nottingham, Nottinghamshire, February 25****th****, 2011…**

"I'm _bored_."

Xenophilius sighed as he watched his agent all but throw a small tantrum in the dilapidated hotel room they were using as a meeting spot. Normally, he wouldn't take this sort of mission, but with reconstruction in full swing in the north, it was all hands on deck.

"Not _every_ mission is going to involve mind screws and murder, Josefina," he chastised the 20-year old. Sometimes, he wondered if she'd ever grown out of her teen years. "Sometimes it's just going to be a slow day at the office. Even for spies."

Josefina glared at him. "So send me back north to Scotland. I'll bet I can really mess things up there for Harry," she suggested. "As a matter of fact, why am I _here_? Nottinghamshire's just a speck on the map! Not even really a big obstacle in the war with the Chiefs! I'm _wasted_ here, Xeno," she whined.

Xeno palmed his face as she kept her diatribe. She'd been like this since he arrived. Well, he was also irritated she insisted on calling him by his name, rather than the agreed codenames—he knew she was never that unprofessional when actually at work, but it seemed that since they were now technically meeting off-hours, she reverted back to speaking to him as she did before he officially took over Harry's black-ops division.

"After that latest mind screw you pulled on Dumbledore's faction, I doubt they'll be that careless again," Xeno informed her before pouring himself some of the scotch he'd brought in his luggage. "And there's absolutely no way we're infiltrating you into the Death Eaters. Mages only for that operation," he added.

Josefina pouted at his response, a little ticked that her talents weren't being put to better use. To Xeno, however, her attitude was a wonder to behold—two years ago, she would've been on the verge of a panic attack just by being in the same room with a man—alone. That she was able to mouth off at him in this way truly spoke of her wonderful recovery from her near-rape in Spain.

"Anyway, Nottingham might not be the most exciting place in the country right now, but it _is_ important," Xeno stressed. "The M1 crosses through here, and we'll need that highway under our complete control if we want to launch a speedy strike at London."

"But it's so _boooooring_!" she whined again. "Seriously—everyone here wears their damn thoughts on their sleeves! It's no challenge!"

Xeno sighed before fixing the girl with a reproachful glare. "Look, Harry _personally_ wanted you to take care of this place," he reminded her. "That means he has big plans for this route. I don't expect you to like your assignment, but I _do_ expect you to do it. Understood?"

Josefina sighed. "Fine, fine," she reluctantly conceded.

Xeno nodded with a satisfied smile. "Good. Now, report on the situation."

The change that overcame Josefina was impressive, to say the least. The moment he finished giving the order, Xeno watched as the slouched girl straightened up and her expression was schooled into the perfect image of professionalism.

"Not much to say," she admitted. "The City Council is still determined to launch strikes into our territory, despite heavy losses. They seem to think that their tenacity will inspire neighbouring regions to support their rebellion against Harry specifically," she reported before pulling out a folded scrap of paper from her jeans pocket and offering it to Xeno. "Places, dates, and sizes of upcoming raids, as requested."

Xeno nodded gratefully as he took the folded paper and unfolded it, silently reading its contents and committing them to memory. "Where are they getting their weaponry?" he asked.

"Surplus stashes, mostly," Josefina reported with a shrug. "Though I've got my suspicions one of the City Council members has ties to other regions, which are providing underground support for Nottingham's efforts."

"Suspicions?" he parroted, eyeing Josefina over the top of the paper.

Josefina had the decency to blush a little. "I was never able to get certain confirmation," she admitted. "The member in question got paranoid and almost made me when I was tailing him to the alleged meeting spot," she explained before giving a small growl. "He's increased his security since. It's getting harder to keep tabs on him."

"Have you tried a personal approach?" asked Xeno as he continued reading.

"Of course—I'm not his type," she said flatly, making Xeno's eyebrows rise. Josefina was a _very_ pretty girl, and if the man in question didn't appreciate that, then he had to wonder about the man's taste. "He's gay," she added.

Well, that explained it.

"Managed to worm out a few things from his aide, though," she continued as she pulled out a small notepad from her back pocket and flipped it open. "He's the driving force of the Council's initiative against us, and he's the wealthiest member. He has substantial investments in the local real estate, and before the country went to hell he had strong ties to the City of London. Now, most of his wealth relies on the fact that he's paid rent by practically a quarter of the population."

She flipped a page.

"He likes his partners to be about his own age, and he never chains himself down to just one. He likes golfing and boxing, and frankly, if it wasn't for the fact that he's one of our worst enemies, I'd say he's an okay guy," she finished with a frown. "Honestly, even his aide has no idea why he's so staunchly against us."

Xeno blinked at that, stopping his reading to stare right at Josefina. "What do you mean?"

Josefina gave an exasperated sigh and ran a hand through her long, black hair. "His aide told me his attitude makes no sense. Sure, he's something of a man-whore, but beyond that he's supposed to be pretty easy going. The fact that _he's_ the most trouble for us is something of an oddity," she elaborated.

Xeno nodded silently, carefully considering the information. He could think of a few reasons why this shift in personality had come about, but he was more curious to see where Josefina's thoughts lay. "How sudden was this seeming shift in attitude?" he asked as he leaned forward and steepled his hands before his face.

Josefina had a gleam in her eyes that told him she felt rather strongly about this. "Pretty sudden," she replied noncommittally. "_Too_ sudden."

Xeno nodded again, pretty certain he could guess her line of thought. "You think there's magic involved." He didn't ask.

Josefina shrugged. "It would make sense," she said before flipping the notepad closed and tucking it into her back pocket again. "His staff don't know what to make of his change in attitude, and from what they're telling me, it was pretty damn sudden—one day to another fast, in fact."

"You want permission to investigate and neutralize the mage responsible I'm guessing," Xeno observed.

She placed a hand on her hip and regarded her superior officer with a stare. "Of course," she answered idly. "I found the evidence of something wrong, I should get the hit. Plus, if we get this guy out of mage control, we could cripple Nottinghamshire's ability to raid our territory."

"What about his fellow Council members?" asked Xeno. While he was more than happy to deal a lethal blow to the Nottinghamshire opposition, he wasn't about to authorize a one-man op to neutralize one member if it meant another would just take his place.

Josefina waved away the concern, however. "They're small fries for the most part. This guy's the big fish. Plus, the power vacuum would mean infighting, which the guys at Liverpool can use to launch a strike to annex the place."

Xeno nodded, satisfied—for now. It was a good idea, and having Josefina undertake the mission, while risky, would also mean less stress on his already stressed resources. Harry might not like the risk she was taking, but as far as Xeno was concerned, Josefina was _his_ soldier now, and he deemed her ready for this task.

Xeno folded Josefina's list and tucked it into his inner suit pocket. "Permission granted," he told her as he stood up. With a flick of his wrist, his wand shot into his hand and with another flick, the scotch bottle flew back into his carry-on. "Determine if a mage is responsible for our troubles here, and then report to me _first_," he stressed the last word, knowing Josefina could just as easily interpret his orders differently if he didn't say it outright. "If there _is_ a mage, I'll authorize the take-down, with back-up," he added quickly, having noticed her growing grin. Almost immediately, it became a frown.

"You don't think I can take down a mage?" she asked, sounding a little offended.

Xeno sighed. He knew she could—heck, she scored better than her entire class when it came down to mage take-downs, a fact he chalked up to having lived with one for a year. "I do think you can," he reassured her. "But if there _is_ a mage around, I want there to be back-up on hand in case they have their own."

Josefina frowned at that, but nodded eventually—albeit reluctantly. "Fine. I guess that's fair," she conceded.

Xeno sighed again—this time in relief.

* * *

**Leeds, United Kingdom, February 28****th****, 2011…**

"His Majesty, the King!"

With a chorus of shoes hitting concrete, the twenty thousand persons crammed into Ellan Road Stadium stood from their seat as the King of the United Kingdom was wheeled onto the platform in the middle of the field. It would have been a pathetic display, were it not for the fact that the king's expression was every bit as proud as his ancestors had been. Add to that the presence of his Guardian, Harry Potter (or Francis White, depending on one's preference) and several other high-ranking members of both the civil administration and the military administration, and no one had even half a mind to laugh at the sight of the monarch being wheeled into position in front of the microphone.

"Please sit," the monarch spoke calmly, his tone solemn. With the immediate effect of a military order, there was a chorus of noise as everyone retook their seats, with the exception of the men and women who stood at the king's back.

"Firstly," the monarch began, "We would like to welcome you all to this historic event," he said with a proud smile. "For the first time in the recent history of our great nation, we will be holding mass entrance examinations for the civil service in order to better deal with the tragic circumstances in which our country finds itself," he announced.

"To work in the civil service is to give oneself to duty," the king reminded his audience. "To do one's duty is to serve the state. To serve the state is to protect the people's wellbeing—this is the code of the civil servant, and one We expect each and every one of you to comply with should you pass the examinations."

Harry nodded along as the king gave his speech, having already read it beforehand. Nonetheless, he was quite impressed by the crippled man's ability to speak, as his diction and tone control was quite refined. A glance at his sides told him his fellow administration colleagues were also suitably impressed, and the lack of any signals from the legion of examiners spread throughout the stadium to prevent cheating told him they at least had the audience's attention, for now.

"You will be tested on every subject matter your desired position will deal with," the king continued. "Public Works will deal with engineering; the Foreign Office, International Relations; Business, with commerce. Let Us remind you again that this will be a challenge for you to prove yourselves worthy—those who do not succeed, will not be approached for a position. We do not have the luxury to coddle in this grave time of need."

Harry nodded somewhat more firmly at this assertion. With reconstruction occurring throughout the north, it had become apparent—mostly through a report presented by Sirius, but apparently prepared by Luna—that the administration in the north was woefully deficient, due in part to the collapse of authority that had followed the attacks in London. It wasn't that the old system didn't work—it had for decades, if not centuries. Rather, it was just that the new circumstances demanded a new form of doing things—one better suited for the resources and situation they were currently in.

Thus, adopting Luna's recommendations following a vote of the Royal Council, each locality of the northern territories implemented the mass entrance exams for the civil service, so as to immediately fill the necessary bureaucratic positions with competent workers. Perhaps at a later date they would loosen regulations a bit, but for now this was the necessary path to take.

"And now, to present the details of the exam, I would like to introduce to you the new Minister for the Civil Service, Sir Michael White," the king finished before getting wheeled out of the way and clapping along with the stadium audience.

From his position on the other end of the row of officials behind the king, Harry watched as Sirius stepped forward and went to give the king a handshake in gratitude. His appointment as head of the civil service had come no more than three days ago, when the order of the day for the Royal Council had been to begin filling the various ministerial positions that were urgently needed. Joshua, as Minister for the Masses, had been the first to be appointed—way back in January. That had been necessary to control the flow of information. Now, as reconstruction was in full swing, a head of the bureaucracy was needed, and Sirius fit the bill.

Originally a post equated with the office of the Prime Minister, the Royal Council's existence eliminated the need for such an figure, thereby limiting Sirius' ministerial powers to the civil service alone. That was fine with the man, as the task of rebuilding and reorganizing the civil service would be a singularly difficult task to begin with.

As Sirius began to speak, Harry sighed as he prepared himself for an even _longer_ speech.

Man…he'd never thought he'd _miss_ the battlefield.

* * *

**Northumberland, United Kingdom, March 3****rd****, 2011…**

"A little more to the left!"

Neville nodded as he kept his wand pointed up and directed a large block of construction material into position, easing it into its groove delicately—or, at least, as delicately as he could.

"Perfect!" he heard the foreman call out from atop the budding wall.

Letting go of the block with his magic, Neville let out a tired breath he hadn't known he was keeping in. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he took a deep breath and stretched his arms—the action managing to let out some of the painful tension he'd been feeling from so much work.

"No, no, no! Your right, not mine!" he heard another foreman cry out, making Neville sigh. He glanced to his left and saw that one of his mages was having trouble following directions—though he could also see that the foreman wasn't exactly being very helpful.

Shaking his head, Neville refocused on the wall before him. It was one of the many, _many_ projects the Royal Council had decreed into being. This one, codenamed Project Babylon, was supposed to be a modern reconstruction of Hadrian's Wall—effectively sealing off Scotland from the English territories. The order had been passed down the moment it became clear the Ministry of Magic was on its last gasp, effectively meaning that Scotland was lost to the mages of either the Order of the Phoenix or the Death Eaters.

Unwilling to allow either faction easy access into England, the Royal Council had decreed the construction of what many were calling Hadrian's Wall 2.0, and to ensure its speedy construction, Harry, Speirs, and Curtis had enlisted any mages not currently working on projects in the north to help out.

It was quite the experience for Neville, who was used to fighting, fighting, and more fighting. For once in his adult life, his biggest enemy wasn't a rogue mage or enemy soldiers, or even militia—it was the dreary routine of getting up early, punching in, doing manual labour, punching out, and going to sleep—rinse and repeat.

He'd been among the many who protested their assignment to the construction project—his own particular worry being that he'd become weaker if his training time and operational status was cut down.

That had earned the protesting mages a personal visit from the Military Triad—Speirs, Curtis, and Harry himself.

Neville could still remember that day.

The protesting mages had been gathered at the parade grounds of Liverpool and made to wait until all three high officials of the military had arrived. Speirs was first, and by the look on his face, he was quite displeased at having to even deal with this sort of situation.

Curtis was next, and she looked downright pissed.

When Harry arrived, however, every mage in the parade grounds knew they were in trouble from the absolutely blank expression on his face. His vivid emerald eyes bore a hole in each and every dissenting mage, including Neville's. He hadn't needed to say a word to any of them for all of them to know he was beyond furious at them.

He'd Apparated in—not an oddity in itself, since he had to travel a lot now that the army was on down time—right in front of them, his hands already clasped behind his back and his blue-and-silver military mage uniform impeccable. His jaw was set, and his stance wide and imposing as he stood before his mages—and he considered them his, for he had been their founder.

"I am to understand," he'd said, "that you all find the orders of the Royal Council to assist in Project Babylon to be beneath your abilities."

No one had dared to say a single word—it would have been suicide. Even though he didn't even sound angry, there was no mistaking the clipped way he talked.

"The first soldier," Harry began, "was a farmer."

Everyone in the crowd of dissenting mages had been utterly confused by the _non sequitur_. Most had expected him to yell at them until he was hoarse, followed by disciplinary measures that would make them regret the day they crossed him. Even Neville had no idea what to make of the speech.

"A man who grew food, but was called to fight others with the very same tools he used to cultivate the land," Harry continued, never even moving from his spot, his eyes still judging each and every dissenting mage. "And so he did, and so he became a soldier. But when the fighting stopped, he did not remain so—he returned to farming."

"We are all weapons," Harry then said. "Each and every one of you, as well as myself and your comrades who are _already_ helping the north rebuild itself after this horrendous period of anarchy, have the ability to cause such devastation that the world would recoil in horror a thousand times over," he reminded them. "But that is not all we are."

He unclasped his hands and brought up both fists. "With these hands, I could kill every man, woman, and child in this city," he stated, and everyone knew that to be true. While he wasn't at the front lines anymore, there was no doubt that Harry remained a very powerful mage. "But I can also make their lives easier. I can build, repair, heal, and grow. Am I less of a warrior for doing so? Am I any less dangerous? No," he stated. "I would simply be choosing to honour the people whose lives I protect when I fight in another way—the way of nurture, of growth."

"We mages have brought much devastation to the world," Harry had reminded them. "And there are many who hate us for what we have done—myself in particular," he added, having no illusions that he wasn't still hated in some parts of Spain. "And so, we must prove to them that we are not mindless weapons of mass destruction—that we _can_ and _will_ help out like any decent human being would following a devastating war."

"But what is it that separates us from normal mages, you ask? Why not have those of us who do not choose to be soldiers perform these mundane tasks?" he had asked then, uncurling his fists. Within moments, both hands were glowing with power. "The very same thing that separates us from them—magnitude."

Without a word, the broken stonework underneath the feet of every mage began repairing itself, as well as the façade of every building in the immediate vicinity. Broken windows, broken tiles, broken bricks…everything put itself slowly back together under the power of Harry's unspoken, wandless spell. Many of the mages jumped in surprise as they felt the ground shift beneath them, only to realize that it was simply repairing itself.

"Magnitude—it is what makes us military mages," he'd reminded his subordinates. "Where a mage uses a spell to lift a feather, we lift a tank. Where a mage lights a candle, we burn a city block to the ground," he added. "You have all been trained to become mages of a magnitude of power higher than the average mage. That is why you are required—because with your skills, we can rebuild our homes faster by several orders of magnitude."

After such a display of magic, no one had dared defy the order anymore.

Of course, Neville knew better than to think of Harry as some sort of God of Magic. Having sparred against the _de facto_ head of the Northern government and military, Neville knew that he was on par with him, if perhaps slightly beneath him. That wasn't to say Harry wasn't strong—the average mage would easily lose to the General of the North without him breaking a sweat—but rather that, as strong as he was, he wasn't the strongest by far. However, that was purely going by raw magical power. Harry had another weapon at his disposal that Neville felt put him on a level far above the rest.

His mind.

It was easy to forget that Harry hadn't grown up being taught at Hogwarts; yet, the way he weaved his magic spoke for itself. Developed in the midst of war, his magical talent was almost completely destruction-oriented, and his instincts had been honed by his experiences on the battlefield. Furthermore, what Harry lacked in raw firepower (ironic, considering his infamy for his liberal use of Fiendfyre), he more than made up in battle tactics and strategy. Whenever Neville had thought he'd had the General in his grasp, Harry would initiate a plan that would completely reverse their positions, even if Neville had more magic at his disposal by then. Combine that with almost perfect control of his magic, and the General of the North was a truly horrific opponent to go up against.

In the end, there was simply no way to beat Harry's battlefield experience, other than gaining some of his own.

Unfortunately, it wasn't as though he could just go out and pick a fight with a hostile nation. Even with relations between the world's nations at their worst since…well…_ever_, all of them had their own issues to deal with, thereby pretty much guaranteeing that there wouldn't be mass conflicts the likes of the Anglo-Spanish War in a while. Even the French, who seemed constantly poised to declare war on the United Kingdom, had their own insurrections to deal with.

"Oi, Wenshi!" his assigned foreman was shouting at him, breaking Neville out of his reverie. "You done playing in la-la-land? We got work to do!"

"Yeah, Yeah," Neville grumbled, suddenly very aware of how sticky his clothing was from the sweat—even though it was March. On a whim, he decided to take off his shirt, revealing his well toned physique, and applied a small warming charm on himself to avoid going down from hypothermia when the cold really did kick in.

Stretching his arms, he gazed at the stack of blocks he was supposed to lift and seal into the budding wall. The sheer amount made him want to groan lazily, but in the end, he did have work to do—and respect to recover from those of his colleagues who'd heard of his initial dissent.

Neville sighed before lifting his wand towards the stack of blocks. There was nothing for it.

"_Wingardium Leviosa!_"

* * *

**Liverpool, United Kingdom, March 30****th****, 2011…**

It had finally happened.

The Ministry of Magic, now based in Inverness, had collapsed.

It hadn't been a surprise to anyone, of course—the writing had been on the wall for quite some time, and its collapse didn't exactly mean absolute anarchy. Instead, its holdings had pretty much become split between the Order of the Phoenix and the Death Eaters, both of which had held infiltrated the Ministry in an effort to control it from the shadows.

The former Minister, Scrimgeour, had managed to flee the Ministry in time before it was overrun by both forces, finally ending up in the care of the Order of the Phoenix. The Death Eaters, under the ostensible leadership of Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange, were able to swallow up most of the Ministry's assets, though the Order was able to secure quite a bit of land for themselves as well.

Either way, Scotland was well and truly lost.

Not that it mattered to William, as he stood waiting at the Liverpool John Lennon Airport's Arrivals terminal. The situation in Scotland had long ago been predicted, and the appropriate countermeasures had been enabled to deal with the anarchy up north. One of those, he heard, was nearing completion, as Project Babylon was finally in its third stage of construction—meaning less than a tenth of it remained to be built. From the briefings at the Royal Council, he even knew that round-the-clock garrisons were already manning those parts that were already finished.

As far as the Royal Council was concerned, however, the biggest threat was not the mages' civil war, but rather the Chiefs of Staff—still. Even though the king's presence in Liverpool all but enforced a tenuous truce between the north and south, it hadn't stopped the two camps from slowly swallowing up the rest of the non-aligned regions of the United Kingdom.

The first to fall before the power of the North had been Northern Wales, whose separatist faction had declared independence. Under the banner of putting down a rebellion, a force under Speirs had been dispatched to retake the rebel regions—a feat the general performed admirably and with impressive speed, managing to put down the rebellion in less than a month.

Curtis, the third member of the military triad, hadn't been idle, however. With Project Babylon already partially finished, she had taken command of the northern frontier, playing guardswoman against any mage incursions. Of course, she had also been Babylon's greatest vocal opponent, having vocalized the one question that did seem to slip everyone's mind when they first envisioned the project.

How does a wall stop a mage from Apparating or Portkeying to the other side?

It was a question that Harry had solved—though with considerable help from Elicia and a small army of magical theorists. The details of the Apparating/Portkeying Countermeasures were classified above top secret, of course, given that any leaks of such information would mean a massive breach in the national defences.

They still hadn't quite gotten around the problem of waypoint-Apparation/Portkeying, though. However, the same team that had developed the Babylon defences assured the Royal Council that they were hard at work in fixing this breach.

So it was that every member of the Council was up to their eyeballs in work—Sirius with the Civil Service, Joshua with controlling the flow of information, Harry overseeing the southern defences and construction projects, Speirs pacifying the Welsh regions, and Curtis overseeing the northern border.

William, however, had a task different from the others, though no less important. Effectively, he was the government's liaison with the Goblins—officially so, now that the Goblins had left London and re-established themselves in Manchester. However, he was also the government's liaison with every ally they had—thus why he was now waiting in an airport.

These arriving allies had been in the shadows for a _long_ time, keeping their presence minimal but their contributions generous. In fact, in a way, William doubted that Harry's little revolution could have ever come into being without this group of allies.

One reason for this was that they were not, as opposed to the Goblins, in the United Kingdom. Sure, Gringotts had branches elsewhere in the world, but their charter as a bank effectively limited their ability to act on Harry's behalf without severely undercutting their clientele numbers. This group of allies, however, had no such problems.

Thus, they moved from country to country, fanning the flames of discord between the local mage population and the non-magical citizenry. It wasn't the most pleasant of jobs, but it _was_ the most critical. Thanks to their efforts, William and the rest had been able to move the pieces in the British Isles without foreign interference. The French were too occupied with their paranoid fear of the Germans and the mage insurrections. The Germans had to deal with violent mage uprisings and French aggression. Spain was only just beginning to rebuild from the devastating war. Italy and Switzerland, caught between the two major continental players, were frozen and bunkered down, refusing to do anything that would upset the status quo. Russia was still a mess following the fall of the Soviet Union, and with the accusations levelled at the new democratic government of being under mage control, discord was rife.

Europe was at its lowest point in history, barring perhaps only the medieval ages.

And that's where Harry wanted it.

That was why William himself had to greet these allies—these fine people who had managed to solidify the effects of Harry's great reveal of magic. No one else had been available to do it—not even Xenophilius.

Of course, there was another reason for him to be here at the airport, waiting on these allies. After all, he could have just greeted them at his office, where it anyone else.

As the terminal doors slid open and let out the arriving passengers from Customs, William immediately caught sight of his awaited guests and, on instinct, bowed his head slightly in both greeting and humility, his hand reflexively curling into a fist and bringing it up to his heart.

His allies, seeing his greeting, smiled exasperatedly, thinking him far too formal for this reunion.

"Father, mother, sister," he greeted with the same solemnity of his head bow, straightening up immediately thereafter. "Welcome home."

* * *

_**Post-AN**: Yeah, yeah, I know. Where's the fighting at? Where's the action? Well, not every single second of a conqueror's life is dominated by war. They also have to build their country, and create a stable base from which to launch future conquests._

_Anyway, as previously stated above, this is just part 1 of the whole interlude-y theme of this chapter. At the very least, I hope you all enjoy knowing that the Potters are finally back together again._


	11. AN & Interlude: A Christmas Carol

_**Pre-A/N: **Before we begin, let me just assure you all that the content of this note, while still significant to the future development of the story, has in no way impeded the writing of the next chapter. That's already in progress. This is merely to deal with an impending issue which cannot be ignored._

* * *

Alright, dear readers, time to touch base.

No, this isn't about flames being sent, nor is it an announcement of my "dropping" this story. Rather, it's due to something a little more banal, yet no less important to this story.

I don't know how to proceed.

Now, before you fly off to the review button and chastise me for lacking a definite plan, let me be clear—I do have a plan, and it is going _great_. Of course, that's as much thanks to the wonderful response I've had to this story as it is due to what I write. Had it gone over badly, I imagine I might have reconsidered certain choices.

At this moment, however, the plan I've had in mind has reached a junction, of sorts. To be clearer, there are two general paths I can take, each with numerous specific approaches, and both with their own benefits.

Allow me to delineate these paths for you all:

- Monogamy.

- Give Harry a "harem".

Again, please finish reading this note before proceeding with the pitchforks and torches (aka, the review button).

The first option is exactly what it says on the tin and the more traditional of the two—A woman and Harry marry, become Empress and Emperor, and live happily ever after (well, not really—that sort of cliché ending wouldn't fit with this story, but you get the idea).

The second option, however, is a little more complicated.

I have it as a personal rule to never write the typical "harem" story found on —that is to say, male fantasy gratification in the form of highly sexualised characterizations of women devoted to the pleasure of a single man, who is, in turn, typically overpowered and near-flawless, while at the same time maintaining a harmonious (or semi-harmonious) existence among themselves. Your mileage may vary on this particular trope of , but I don't like writing it.

However, I _am_ interested in writing a story wherein sexual politics come into play. By this, I don't mean actual descriptions of sexual acts, or using sex as a weapon within a relationship, but rather the use of marital (or semi-marital) relationships as a way of conducting political manoeuvring and leverage. For a real-life example, think of the Chinese Dynasties, wherein concubines and the Empress typically waged political wars all on their own to protect their own interests from the other women attached to the Emperor.

Now, I realize that the European setting of this story would make such a system clash horribly with the culture of the European nations mentioned in the story, and while I do have a plan to try and make it fit, I have no guarantees that anyone will like it.

I should also point out that, in the event that the second option be undertaken, I would _**not**_, in _**any**_ way, write out _**any**_ sex scenes between Harry and his partners. This is _**not**_ that kind of story. If nothing else, the inclusion of this particular literary vehicle would be to explore inter-familial conflicts in a family destined to be at the top. Issues like inheritance, legitimacy, merit, filial piety, loyalty, ambition, and the dealing of parental responsibilities towards a large number of possible heirs could all be explored further in depth.

That isn't to say that it also couldn't be done in the first option—on the contrary, having a purely monogamous Imperial couple could also be used to explore the idea of who gets to inherit what, whether it should be based on primogeniture or merit, filial piety, loyalty, ambition, etc…but on a much smaller scale, and without the issue of legitimacy really coming into play.

My main concern, however, is that I fear that if I chose to give Harry an imperial harem (which, technically, I suppose would be a misnomer for the situation I have in mind) I would be branded an inferior writer, or worse, a pervert; who's pandering to the perverts on the site. Thus why I would like to confer with you, my readers, whose stake in enjoying this story is also at risk.

Both routes, I think, would allow for substantial development of characters and the events of this story. Furthermore, **I reiterate my express refusal to write any sex scenes**—therefore the "harem" (or rather, **concubinage system**) would focus solely on its effects on the politics of the Empire and individual character development as Harry rises to power.

Some may question how good an author I really am if I have to ask my readers what they want—after all, many great writers would say to write what _one_ wants. However, this story is as much fun to me in writing as it is in reading the positive feedback from you all, as well as the _constructive_ criticism.

And so, with all this said, I would ask you all to provide me feedback on this situation—**which path should I take? Monogamy straight to the end, or the Imperial Concubine System?**

As a last note, bear in mind that taking the second option does not necessarily exclude Elicia from the system—though, in keeping with her character development, it probably will.

To best facilitate your feedback (since I know not everyone's a fan of reviewing), I will have a poll set up on my profile by the time this is posted. Your feedback in this, however, would still be greatly appreciated.

* * *

EDIT: All I can say at this moment is...wow. The amount of feedback you've all given me on this one issue has been nothing short of astounding. In fact, in a humorous side note, this one author's note of 1,044 words has managed to garner more reviews than any other chapter in the story. At the moment, I will not be announcing which path I've opted to take (yes, I _have_ made up my mind, thanks to you all), but as one reviewer helpfully pointed out, entries that are solely Author's notes are not allowed. Thus, as thanks for your help in this issue, I've opted to write a small mini-chapter detailing a moment in Harry and Elicia's relationship.

Again, thank you all for your feedback on this issue.

Marquis Black

* * *

**Liverpool, United Kingdom, December 24th, 1996…**

"_Francis, hurry up! We're going to be late!_"

Harry suppressed the desire to grumble as he all but tried hopping into his trousers, knowing full well that Elicia was impatiently waiting for him to leave his bathroom so they could get a ride to the local pub, where John had apparently decided to host an impromptu Christmas bash.

Obviously, none of them could legally drink still, but that hadn't stopped his best friend from insisting he had ways around that.

Frankly, Harry doubted it.

"Sodding trousers!" he cursed as he hopped on one clothed foot, the whole time making his way over to the door. It wasn't the safest way to get clothed, but he _was_ in a hurry. "Coming!" he shouted through the door at Elicia.

"I _told_ you to get ready an hour ago!" Elicia reproached him from his dorm room. "Honestly, Francis, you're always like this!"

Harry rolled his eyes as he finished buttoning his trousers and zipped himself up. He had half a mind to make a quip at her impatience, but quickly remembered the time honoured rule of dating (for those who wanted a harmonious relationship)—the woman is _always_ right.

It didn't help his case that, in this particular occurence, she _was_ right.

Grumbling to himself, he quickly whipped his belt off the towel rack and slid it into place. "Almost done, luv!"

Harry could've sworn he'd heard Elicia grumble "'bout bloody time," but dismissed it as a trick of his imagination. Finally, after buckling his belt, he opened the door and gave his (secret) girlfriend a brilliant, million-dollar smile. "All set!" he pronounced, pleased with himself.

Elicia gave him a critical once-over before pointing down at his feet. "Shoes," she reminded him.

Harry felt like hitting himself. Of _course_ he'd forgotten the shoes. If it wasn't one thing, it was another. Quickly dashing over to his closet, he pulled out a pair of dress shoes and slipped them on before turning back to Elicia and spreading his arms in a sort of "so, what do you think?" manner.

Elicia repeated her once-over of him, this time giving a reluctant shrug. "It'll do," she judged—which, coming from her, and given how annoyed she was at his tardiness, was quite the compliment, Harry realized.

Harry's smile returned full force at her judgement. "Excellent," he replied. "And you look stunning yourself, Ellie," he complimented her, managing in eliciting a dark blush on her pale cheeks.

It wasn't an exaggeration, either. Elicia looked stunning in her plain clothes. With thick, grey stockings reaching well into the ocular safety of her long, plaid skirt, a fuzzy-looking beige jumper, and purple scarf, she looked quite adorable to Harry.

Elicia frowned, however—though there was no malice in her gaze. "…Two points," she stated. At his curious, confused look, Elicia elaborated. "You've just earned two points on my good side. Keep it up, and I might not want to deck you for making us this late."

Harry laughed.

* * *

Arriving at the party was, amusingly, the most difficult part of their not-a-date. Since they preferred not to announce their relationship to the world—thereby probably sparing a lot of broken hearts on the part of Harry's many female admirers—the intrepid duo were forced to arrive separately.

Even if they _did_ walk most of the way there together. With their hands linked.

Opting for a bizarre variation of the gentleman's code, Harry urged Elicia to go inside first, not wanting her to remain out in the cold for longer than necessary. The gesture was worth it, though—the smile and peck on the cheek she gave him in thanks had Harry feeling so warm inside he barely felt the biting cold.

Fifteen minutes he waited around the corner from the pub before making his entry. When he did, he was greeted by many a cheer and welcoming shout from his classmates, who already seemed well underway with the festivities. He was pleased to note that he couldn't smell any alcohol in the air—hopefully a tell-tale sign that whatever cockamamie plan John had cooked up to get his classmates some alcohol had failed.

It took all of Harry's willpower not to immediately look for Elicia. Ever since they'd finally confessed their feelings to each other, he'd loathed every minute she wasn't with him. It didn't matter if they didn't touch—though even just a brush of the hand was nice—all he really needed was to feel her presence close to him. That was it.

The kisses, the snogging, and every other derivative therein? All bonuses.

Ellie was his world now, and he couldn't be happier for it.

* * *

One hour. That was how long he'd managed to resist the temptation to seek out Elicia. One measly, painful hour.

Okay, so he was a bit clingy. Maybe so, but he knew for a fact that Elicia was no better. A fact validated when, upon his resuming of his search, he soon found her looking for him as well. They'd exchanged polite greetings—as if they hadn't been together earlier that day—and then went to a booth to ostensibly chat, like friends would.

Suffice to say, when John nearly interrupted said little venture to the booth, both Harry and Elicia had wanted to kill the wild teen, who had somehow managed to live up to his promise of finding a way of getting alcohol. Unfortunately for John (and fortunately for the duo), however, his tolerance was awful, and soon after drunkenly trying to insert himself into the duo's alone time, was quickly rushing towards the bathroom to worship the porcelain gods.

Feeling slightly guilty at how glad they were that their mutual friend had deserted them to purge his intoxicated system, Elicia and Harry nonetheless found their private booth and enjoyed each other's company as they drank their soft drinks.

* * *

"Poor John," Elicia sighed two hours later as she and Harry opted for a walk through the city.

Harry grinned at her. "Which one? The one doing the giving, or the one doing the receiving?" he asked wryly.

Elicia smacked his arm lightly for the bad joke, though he would've sworn before a court of law that she'd given a small smile nonetheless.

"I did warn him about drinking," Harry pointed out as he made a big show of rubbing his 'wound.' "Told him he couldn't just dive right into it. You've got to ease your way into the habit."

Elicia glanced at him wryly. "And how would you know, Mister White?" she asked coyly.

Harry smirked. "New Year's party with my folks, of course," he answered freely. "Mum and dad may not approve of their kids drinking the hard stuff, but there's nothing wrong with a small glass of champagne."

Elicia shook her head with a smile in mock-disappointment. "And here I thought you were pure of sin, White," she said dramatically.

Harry gave a short laugh. "Oh please," he said before wrapping one arm around Elicia's waist and pulling her closer to him. "Even if I didn't drink, I could never give you up," he told her with a soft smile.

That did the trick. Elicia's blush momentarily made her look like a ripened tomato as she looked down—still not being used to that sort of romantic talk. After all, Harry was her first boyfriend _ever_.

"Flatterer," she mumbled, enjoying the warmth of their impromptu embrace.

Harry smiled as he leaned down and placed a kiss on her forehead. Sure, his lips were somewhat chapped from the cold, but the act nonetheless brought a happy sigh from Elicia.

"Want to go see the tree?" he asked then.

Frowning at the fact that their close embrace would end, Elicia nonetheless considered the question he posed. The tree in question was a pine tree Liverpool College put into their dormitory yard and lit up every Christmas Eve. For many LC student couples, it was considered a tradition to bring your significant other to the lighting—supposedly for good luck in the relationship.

Naturally, Elicia scoffed at the idea that attending a pine tree illumination would somehow "bless" her relationship with Francis. She was a woman of science, damnit all! If their relationship worked, it was because they worked at it and were compatible with each other—not because some pine tree said so!

Still, the more feminine side of her couldn't quite resist the urge to attend the tree illumination with Francis, since this was their first ever Christmas as a couple.

"Sure, why not?" she agreed eventually with a smile directed at him.

Harry grinned at her. "Excellent. I know just the spot, too!"

* * *

True to his word, Harry had somehow managed to find a way to get himself and Elicia onto the roof of one of the dormitory buildings. Being flat surfaced, there was little worry that they'd slip right off, but even so, Harry led her to the edge of the roof carefully before taking a seat on the ledge, Elicia at his side.

From their position, they had a perfect view of the dormitory courtyard; at the centre of which stood the massive pine tree that was the focus of their little LC tradition.

"How on earth did you manage to find a way up here?" she asked him as they settled in for the wait. She, of course, remembered the actual path, but it had been so innocuous that she was surprised Francis had managed to find it at all.

"Made friends with some of the service staff," Harry explained with a grin. "Asked one of them for a good spot to bring a girl."

Elicia's curious look quickly transformed into an annoyed frown. "A girl?" she parroted. "How many others have you brought up here?" she half-asked, half-demanded. In a way, her jealousy was perhaps a little warranted, given that she was hardly Harry's first girlfriend.

"Just you," he swore with an honest smile, surprising her. "I like this place. I come here to relax sometimes, and letting people know where it is would ruin the peace and quiet," he confessed abashedly while scratching his cheek with one finger.

"I just figured…you know…that you'd appreciate it more than the others ever could," he confessed, unaware of how touched Elicia was feeling that he'd confided his secret spot to her.

Elicia surprised him then, and herself, by taking the initiative and leaning towards him, planting a soft kiss on the corner of his lips. "Thanks," she said softly.

Now it was Harry's turn to blush, making her smile wickedly.

"I _knew_ I could make you blush," she crowed before smiling sweetly.

"Shut it," he mumbled without any real malice.

The pair descended into silence then, both of them looking away from the other as they admired the view. Only when the sound of excited students drifted up to their sanctuary did they return their attention to the pine tree.

"It's starting," Harry observed quietly as he laid his hand on top of hers.

"Yeah," Elicia agreed softly, turning her hand slightly so they were grasping.

As the two sat there, the courtyard slowly becoming illuminated by the decorative lights on the large pine tree, both of them wished the moment would never end.


	12. Chapter X: Life in Interesting Times

_**AN:** New chapter! Yay!_

_Thanks to all of you who participated in the poll. As those of you who read the updated A/N may know, I have now made my decision regarding the path to take. As of this moment, I am declaring the story to be undertaking the **monogamous** path I outlined. You were right-Harry's characterization up until now would have made the other path a little difficult to swallow (even if I **am** confident I could pull it off). However, I am **not** guaranteeing a Elicia/Harry pairing. While this may indeed become the final pairing, I reserve the right to change my mind, or tweak that, as the story and characterization progresses._

_Man, am I glad I didn't mention his marital status in the prologue __

_Anyway, hope you enjoy the chapter!_

_- MB_

* * *

**Liverpool, United Kingdom, March 31****st****, 2011…**

This wasn't the first time Harry had seen his parents since he had left for Liverpool College all those years ago.

Over the years, he had been able to see them occasionally, typically when they visited the British Isles during vacations. Ever since the war with Spain had broken out, however, they had remained fixatedly abroad, hoping to spare his sister, Isabella, of the sacrifices of war. Ever since then, he had never once been able to pick out a time when they could have visited him, or vice-versa. If he wasn't on the battlefield, he was taking care of Josefina, or in chains as he awaited trial for revealing magic to the world, or putting down insurrections, and finally establishing himself as the General in the North.

Hence, he didn't resent them. He didn't resent their absence in his life. He knew, intellectually, that being near him during all that time would've been extremely dangerous.

So why did it hurt him so deeply when he thought about that gap in his life?

Even as his mind dictated reason, his heart cried out in pain at the absence of his family. William didn't count—his brother, for as much as he loved him, had little emotional presence. If Harry wanted someone to bounce ideas off of, his brother was his man—but he could not feasibly lean on him for emotional support; not like he could with a parent or sister.

Sure, he had Elicia—but lovers and family provided two very different types of emotional comfort. Lovers could come and go—family was forever.

Thus, Harry knelt before his parents and sister as they greeted him in his apartment in Liverpool, their body language screaming their desire to hug him and greet him warmly. Even as they looked confusedly at him, Harry leaned forward until he was kowtowing—something no other human being would ever see him do willingly.

"I'm sorry," were the first words out of his mouth. It made sense to him. After all, everything was his fault—this anarchy, this conflict, their estrangement. They hadn't chosen that life abroad willingly—he had forced the circumstances of that decision upon them with his actions. He had robbed their family of a chance to be together from the very beginning to the bitter end. To him, it made absolute sense to apologize. "I'm so, _so very_ _sorry_ for everything I've put you through," he repeated.

Silence descended upon the room at his pronouncement. William, standing to the side, eyed his brother for a moment impassively before turning his gaze at his estranged family, carefully observing their reactions to his brother's most unusual act.

His father seemed surprised—shocked even, mixed in with some confusion. William wasn't all that surprised with that—after all, his father had always been one to think more with his instincts than with straight-up emotions or logic.

Isabella, his sister, seemed exasperated with her brother's apology. It seemed she'd grasped exactly what he was talking about, and felt he was being ridiculous. Considering the fact that their mother had told him that she idolized her brothers, William wasn't all that surprised.

His mother, however, seemed to be the most level-headed of the group, albeit it not because of some deep attachment to logic, like himself. Rather, in William's opinion, it seemed she best understood her son, and understood that emotional outbursts wouldn't really fit with the situation.

To that end, Lily slowly made her way forward to the kneeling form of her eldest son and knelt before him, almost hesitatingly putting her soft, gentle hands on his cheeks and slowly guiding his head to tilt upwards, so that his emerald eyes would meet her own.

Harry's heart almost stopped at the gentle smile gracing his beautiful mother's face. He had, honestly, expected recriminations of some sort. He was expecting a slap, perhaps, or even some form of bitter remark. It was what he deserved, after all. Hell, he sometimes punished _himself_ for his mistakes.

Elicia had even said that the person hardest on Harry was Harry himself.

His mother shattered those expectations as she pulled her eldest son into a gentle—but no less firm—hug.

"My baby," she whispered happily—for happy she was. After so many years of living on the outside, fretting daily about her son's health and safety, she finally, _finally_ had her baby in her arms again—nevermind that he was nearly thirty one years old. "My dearest, darling boy."

Giving his father a silent nod, William excused himself from the reunion—having had his already at the airport. After all, someone had to make sure his brother and family had their moment to themselves—it just wouldn't do if someone managed to trespass on this very private moment.

Harry was completely lost to all this, however. He was too stunned by the hug, which he had honestly not expected. Oh, sure, it would have been easy to say that he expected his family to support him all the way—but that would've been a lie. How could he possibly know whether his family truly backed him on what he'd done? Could they really condone all the lives he'd taken? Could they really still love him after all he'd done? It wasn't exactly the sort of fact one could be certain about without logical backing.

And yet here he was, being hugged for all he was worth by his mother.

For the first time in…well…for as long as he could remember, he felt his eyes tear up as all those insecurities rushed to the front and were swept aside by the warm feeling of his mother's hug.

He tensed up then as he felt a hand on his head. Looking up from his head's place on his mother's shoulder, he saw his father standing at his mother's side, grinning down at him. He then felt another pair of arms hug him from behind, and a glance that way told him Isabella had decided to join in.

"There's nothing to forgive," his mother whispered. "I'm just glad you're alive," she said, barely managing to avoid having her voice crack with emotion.

Harry smiled freely—for the first time in such a long time. "Thank you."

* * *

**Liverpool, United Kingdom, April 3****rd****, 2011...**

In a perfect world, Harry would've asked for a week or two of leave to bond with his newly reunited family. They would have then stayed home, gone camping, or even just taken a trip to another country and had a pleasant time all around.

Such things were impossible in a time of anarchy, however.

Despite William running interference for his family, he was only able to give them a couple of days to catch up before the demands of Harry's position became impossible to ignore any longer.

For one thing, Speirs had called for a meeting of the Royal Council to report on the Welsh campaign, and Curtis had her own report regarding the functionality of Project Babylon and the top secret anti-Apparation and Portkey countermeasures. Elicia was also due for a report on the construction of the FCE Facility, Sirius had to give a progress report on the mass examinations, and William was well overdue in giving a report on their allies' status.

Add to that Harry's own obligations—including overseeing graduation ceremonies for new military mages, visiting vital construction sites to boost morale, and being present at the Southern Front Garrison Command Post (SFGCP)**—**and the idea of taking a week-to-two week long vacation was ludicrous.

In an unfortunate turn of events, his family, too, had become one of his outstanding duties. After all, their return this time signalled the end of their mission abroad, which meant he had to establish them within his administration.

Well…he didn't _have_ to, but he was well aware of the benefits of such a nepotistic arrangement. Heck, he might not even need to abuse his power to get them instated in major positions—Sirius and William hadn't, after all; they had earned their positions through self-achievement.

"…I understand where you're coming from, General, but we simply cannot afford to send further reinforcements to the Welsh front while Nottingham remains a focal point of regional dissent," Joshua was arguing with Speirs as Harry returned to reality; the reality that he was currently in a rather heated session of the Royal Council.

But then, it was typically more of a miracle whenever relations between the civilian administration and military were friction-free.

Speirs slammed down a fist on the table angrily. "Northern Wales is ours now," he reminded Warwick. "If we push south and annex the rest of Wales, we would finally be able to stand on even ground with the Chiefs of Staff!" he insisted.

"General Speirs' proposal has merits," William concurred. "Is there truly no pool of reinforcements we can draw from?" he asked the military side of the table.

Curtis was the one to shake her head, as Harry preferred to stay out of this discussion. "Unfortunately not—at least, not without drawing from the active strength of the SFGCP or Project Babylon."

"Well, what about Military Mages?" proposed Sirius. "Isn't there a graduating class due to enter active service soon?" he asked Harry.

Sighing at being drawn into the discussion, Harry nodded. "They're green, however," he pointed out. "The most battlefield experience they've got is simulated war games under controlled circumstances. I don't know how effective they'd be on an actual battlefield."

"You were fine," Speirs pointed out, remembering vividly well the landings at Rupuente during the Anglo-Spanish War. "And you had no more experience than they did."

"I also almost died thirty times in subsequent engagements," Harry riposted. "And let's not forget that the first time the military mages were deployed, at Zaragoza, we lost a quarter of them due to battlefield inexperience. I don't think we possess the numbers to so callously throw them into the grinder and hope for the best."

"Fair point," conceded Speirs with a frown.

"However, General Speirs is correct that we need a way to increase our territory and, by consequence, our resources in order to stand at an even footing against the Chiefs."

"What if we don't?" asked Harry then, completely shocking the rest of the Council.

"Explain," ordered the king, who seemed immediately interested by Harry's objection.

Harry cleared his throat. "True, we have less land and less of a population than the Chiefs have at their beck and call," he conceded. "And true, adding the southern Welsh territories would be an incredible boon—but that would take manpower, would likely result in quite a few of our own casualties, and, most importantly—time. Add to that the fact that by annexing all of Wales, we would be opening a third front unwittingly when the war breaks out, and we've got ourselves a problem."

"Yet, if we keep the status quo, we have a buffer," Harry pointed out. "Southern Wales isn't under London control, and it's not separatist, so it won't immediately retaliate against us. In fact, if we cultivate relations with Cardiff, we may just manage to keep them neutral, thereby depriving the Chiefs of an ally and access point into our territories. By doing so, we would be limiting the feasible routes of attack they could take to a defensible few," Harry analysed.

"What of the considerable air force and naval force the Chiefs still have in their power?" pointed out Curtis, though she seemed inclined to favour his idea. Still, loose ends had to be taken care of. "They could easily bypass our restrictions with air drops and naval landings, like we did in Spain."

"Unless we deploy tactical strike teams to neutralize these capabilities ahead of time," Speirs said with dawning realization, his left hand cupping his chin pensively. "If we can somehow keep the Chiefs' offensive confined to land, we would possess an immeasurable advantage against them if we fortify the likely attack routes."

"It would also be easier for our resources to handle," William concurred. "And our allies would greatly appreciate the lack of additional stress on their financial contributions."

"Agreed," Sirius lent his support. "Though this will mean we have to crank up the training regimen of our troops."

"Indeed," agreed Harry. "If they've got quantity, we'll have to outdo them in quality. Speirs," he turned to address his colleague. "You'll need to fortify the Welsh position. Make sure we don't have to worry about an insurrection when the conflict inevitably erupts."

Speirs nodded, being that it was a reasonable—and not to mention obvious—request. "Of course."

"Who will lead the Cardiff mission?" asked Joshua then. He had an expectant gleam in his eyes—and it surprised no one. After all, it was well known that he had always coveted the idea of becoming the head of the Foreign Office—a sort of Talleyrand-esque figure in the new regime.

And honestly, Warwick _was_ the best choice. He was cultured, diplomatic, and not above some necessary diplomatic strong-arming if necessary. The problem was his job. He was Minister for the Masses, meaning they depended on him constantly managing the flow of information. The Cardiff mission, however, could take a while, and they couldn't afford having the Minister out of office for that long.

The idea of nominating his father or mother came and went in Harry's mind. True, it would be a good way of inserting them into the administration, but it would also miff Joshua—and there was always the consideration that the Southern Welsh might not be appreciative of a mage envoy.

Of course, if Joshua was willing to _step down_…

"I nominate Lord Warwick," Harry spoke up, gaining Joshua's look of gratitude—perhaps a little hasty on his part, considering that Harry wasn't finished. "But as we all know, this mission could take some time," he enunciated his thoughts, bringing a frown to Warwick's face as the rest of the council nodded. "As such, to send the Minister for the Masses to Cardiff would be detrimental to our own constancy here."

Joshua wasn't a beginner in politics—he instantly seized on the fact that Harry wanted something from him in return for the post. "Quite true," he agreed amiably, wanting to get past the politics and see what Harry wanted. "What do you propose, then, General?"

Harry's gaze at Joshua was steady. "If you were to resign your post as Minister for the Masses, then there would be no problem," he pointed out, making many on the council—including the king—raise an eyebrow at the direct proposal. Typically, this was something negotiated behind closed doors. "Following such, we could then invest Lord Warwick as Minister of the Foreign Office," he added then smoothly.

"And the post of Minister for the Masses?" asked Speirs sceptically. Joshua, on the other hand, was giving Harry a shrewd look, trying to decipher the man's agenda in this.

It didn't take him long to put the pieces together. He knew that Harry's family had just arrived from abroad—to stay, this time around. Taking a gamble, Joshua spoke up then. "I would be willing to resign as suggested by the General," he declared. "However, acknowledging General Speirs' inquiry, I propose that my successor be the esteemed James Potter, who I understand has just returned to the country with his family."

From the look on Harry's face, Warwick knew he'd gambled right, as Harry gave him a discreet nod. "Seconded," Harry stated then.

Speirs, finally realizing what the two had been doing, looked a little disgruntled at the roundabout way they'd done it, but nodded nevertheless. "Aye," he voted.

"I agree as well," Curtis lent her support. Again, no surprise, considering that the appointment would pretty much keep the power of the government within a very small group of like-minded individuals. Adding in Potter's father would just mean better control over all facets.

"Aye," Sirius voted, to no one's surprise.

"I vote yes," William stated finally, bringing the vote to unanimous consent, pending the king's vote.

Said monarch merely observed the room for a moment, taking in the events that had unfolded before him. With a little sadness, he reluctantly conceded that the democratic way of his nation was crumbling before his very eyes. With Potter's father as a new Council member, it would mean further concentration of power within the hands of the individuals before him.

Then again, that was only partially true. As his gaze slid over to Harry, the king noted that this concentration of power was majorly in the man's sole favour. Very soon, he knew, he would pass away, leaving power focused in this small group of individuals, all led by the overwhelming force of presence of Harry Potter.

Yet…as the king slowly nodded his head in agreement with the vote, he found himself accepting that as fate. His time was nearly at an end, and with it, his country would die. What happened afterwards was no longer his concern, as it would be guided by the choices of the people, and Harry Potter.

"Agreed," he intoned. "The vote passes with unanimous consent. Lord Warwick, I hereby appoint you Minister of the Foreign Office. Official letters of investiture shall be drafted for you to make the appointment official, as well as for Mr. Potter. Congratulations."

There was no real joy in the applause that followed. Rather, it was the applause of people who had expected the outcome from the very beginning.

* * *

**Netherley Outskirts, United Kingdom, April 10****th****, 2011…**

"Nuclear power?" asked Elicia, suddenly interested and stopping her perusal of the latest test results for the FCE facility, which was quickly approaching final construction phase.

Harry nodded as he finally got out of bed, his torso bare, and stretched. "The king mentioned it a while ago—must have forgotten to mention it," he told her. "I think it was called Project…Trinity?" he mused.

"Can't say I've heard of it."

Harry chuckled. "Not surprising, considering it's deemed top secret," he told her.

Elicia nodded. "Well…Einstein and Oppenheimer's initial work does provide for that possibility…" she conceded as she lay down the report in her hands and mused over the idea. "But, unless I'm thinking of the wrong thing, there's a moratorium on experiments involving nuclear fission," she recalled as Harry walked into the bathroom.

"That would be due to Trinity," Harry called out at her.

Elicia stared at the now-closed bathroom door, the possibility of harnessing the power of nuclear fission racing through her mind. Yes…she could already see the enormous benefits of going down that line of research, but with the moratorium firmly in place, she couldn't even go near such an experiment—much less develop a theoretical one.

Harry dashed those hopes, however, the moment he came back out of the bathroom, his hair damp and a towel hanging off his shoulders. "I'm not petitioning the Council to revoke the moratorium, Ellie," was the first thing out of his mouth the moment he came back into their room.

Elicia, who'd only just begun to open her mouth to vocalize such a proposal, shut it quickly and glared. "Why not?" she demanded. "If we could somehow harness both nuclear fission and FCE, we could produce twice, or even more, the energy we'll be producing once the FCE facility is operational!"

Harry eyed her for a moment. "This isn't about gratifying your scientific sensibilities, Ellie," he chastised her. "I, for one, am glad Trinity was shut down. Can you _imagine_ what kind of nightmarish world we'd be living in if we tried to do all this in a world with nuclear weaponry?" he asked her. "Besides," he added with a shrug, "the FCE Facility energy production projections are already magnificent. Why tempt fate?"

"It could revolutionize science," Elicia pointed out. "I can't even begin to imagine what sort of achievements we could derive from such research!"

"The answer's no, Ellie," Harry repeated with finality. "It's much too dangerous."

Elicia glared at Harry's back as he got dressed, wishing he could see how important it was to her to follow this string of scientific research. Even so, however, she knew she couldn't go behind his back on this—for better of worse, Harry effectively controlled the Royal Council, and the idea of Sirius or William voting against Harry was nothing short of ridiculous—unless, of course, Harry's plan was completely and utterly insane.

Which the moratorium wasn't.

Heck, in a way, he was already banking a lot of political capital on her. Glancing out the window of their little inn room, she gazed as the towering construction site in the distance, the final outline of the FCE Facility beginning to take shape.

By blindingly supporting her efforts in deciphering the fuel crystal's secrets, Harry was risking a lot of his credibility before the Council—and every regional leader in his territory—on Elicia's success, which spoke well of his trust in her. Nonetheless, he wasn't a complete idiot—he wasn't going to overextend his credibility beyond what he could afford.

"John sends his love, by the way," she informed her lover as she returned her attention to the FCE test results. "He and Annie seem to be doing well."

"I'm glad to hear that," Harry replied as he finished buttoning up his uniform. He had a conference to get to in Manchester in an hour, and he couldn't afford dressing sloppily. "How's their son doing?"

"Your _godson_ is doing well," Elicia answered with a small smirk. "Annie's thinking of enrolling him at her daycare."

Harry shrugged at that. He'd never really gotten to know Annie Lyles. "I wish them the best with that," he said absently as he finished buttoning his collar closed. "Do I look alright?" he asked Elicia as he turned around and showed off his uniform.

Elicia gave him a critical look-over for a moment before nodding. "Looks good, as always," she said with a smile. Then again, at the moment, she was the least dressed of the two—still wearing nothing but Harry's shirt from the previous day and her knickers.

Harry sighed as he picked up his long coat from a chair and carried it on his arm. "I just wish these conferences weren't all so uptight," he half-whined as he went over to Elicia and bent down to kiss her goodbye. "I'll see you for dinner?" he asked her in a whisper after they broke off the kiss.

Elicia gave him an apologetic smile. "Sorry, John insisted on having me over for dinner," she excused herself.

Harry smiled right back. "I'm glad," he told her honestly. "It's been too long since John's been part of our lives."

Elicia smiled brilliantly at him. "Indeed it has."

* * *

**New Hogsmeade, Scotland, April 10****th****, 2011…**

Knock. Knock.

"I'm busy!" Bill shouted as he kept his attention focused on the object cluttering his workbench. Honestly, when would they leave him be? Couldn't they understand that his work was _important_? At least, much more so than their ridiculous feuds over who was in charge of what.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

"BUSY!" he roared again, his frustration with his current mental block finally overtaking him. The device before him—his magnum opus and vindication of his beliefs and actions—taunted him with its incompleteness. He had visualized its design, theorized its effects, and yet he couldn't manage to detect the one flaw in it that was preventing its completion.

For a moment, there was a pause as the knocking ended, causing Bill to sigh in relief. That was quickly crushed, however, when he heard mumbling through the door and its lock clicked. Slowly, it swung open to reveal his sister standing there, her hands fisted and on her hips as she looked at him reprovingly.

"Very nice, Bill," she commented. "Were you raised in a cave, by any chance?"

Bill grunted as he kept his frustrated gaze on the device before him. "Go away," he shooed her. "Busy."

"So I heard," she reminded him wryly before giving him a once-over. Her brother looked like crap—his long hair was dirty, his clothes were all crumpled, and she was pretty sure she could _smell_ the filth on him. "Merlin's shrivelled toe, Bill, when was the last time you had a wash?" she reproached him.

"Who cares?" Bill grumbled as he continued tinkering. "S'not like I'm bothering anyone."

"Are you kidding me? I thought you were dead and decaying in here from outside," she said exasperatedly. "Honestly, Bill…what are you doing to yourself?"

"I'm doing something _important_," Bill hissed impatiently. A moment later, his patience finally snapped and he banged his fist on the workbench. "FUCKING MACHINE! WORK!"

Ginny raised an eyebrow at her eldest brother's language. Years ago, he would've never acted this way; but then, years ago he would still have been employed by Gringotts as a Curse Breaker—quite possibly her brother's greatest moments in life.

"What's that?" she asked, nudging her head towards the device on Bill's workbench.

The eldest Weasley sibling was silent for a moment, his head held down by his hands on the workbench in frustration. "…an equalizer," he mumbled out—barely loud enough for her to hear.

"A what?" she asked, not sure she'd heard him right.

"An equalizer," he repeated impatiently as he straightened up. "Something to wreck some havoc on the Death Eaters," he added. At her sceptical look, he felt his temper flare a bit, but barely managed to keep it under control. "Look, they've got more people on their side than we do, and even though we've started going for kills rather than captures, we're losing. That's the truth of it. So this bloody thing here," he motioned to the device. "Was meant to change that. To use the Death Eater's superior numbers against them."

"What's it do?" she asked curiously, feeling a bit of excitement rising in her. She sat on the Governing Council, after all, and she was well aware of how needed a game changing asset was at the moment.

"Briefly?" he asked rhetorically. "It's a bomb."

Ginny raised an eyebrow.

"A magical bomb," Bill corrected himself. "It's meant to fire off massive amounts of lethal magical energy. No shield, other than _Protego Maxima_, would be able to stop it," he stated. "And even then, no guarantees."

Ginny's eyes widened considerably at her brother's explanation. Such a device would, as he said, be quite the game changer. The Death Eaters, unlike the Order, preferred swarm tactics based on their considerable numbers—bolstered further with their alliances with Dark Creatures, such as Vampires, Werewolves, and Giants. Thus, their strategies tended to be overwhelming strikes against Order positions which, due in part to their lacking numbers, the Order had yet to successfully withstand when not gathered _en masse_.

The only good side to that strategy, however, meant that it was laughably easy to identify enemy incursions.

With Bill's device, however, the war in the north could change radically. Especially if they managed to lob one of them into the massed enemy ranks during the opening salvo of their assaults.

"So what's wrong with it?" she asked, now eager to see the device in action.

Bill glowered at the machine for a moment. "I can't find an adequate source of energy," he admitted reluctantly. "The detonation spells, structural integrity, and ignition spells all work, but I can't find an energy source that could provide a suitable payload to make the bomb worth it," he growled.

Ginny blinked at his problem, then felt a slight smile come into being as she recalled a report Colin had given her that very morning.

"An energy source?" she all but purred as she came closer to her brother, who was hunched over his workbench. "My dear brother, I think I've got the solution to _all_ your problems," she told him with a vicious smile.

Bill blinked and looked over his shoulder at his youngest sibling. "What're you talking about?" he asked grumpily—yet the curiosity was easily apparent to Ginny.

"Just this morning, a source of mine told me something very interesting about the lands south of the wall," she told him with a sly smile as she perched herself slightly on his workbench. It didn't take a genius to realize that she was talking about Potter's northern territories. "As I hear it, they're planning to unveil an energy production facility close to the capital at Liverpool."

"So?" grumped Bill as he leaned back into his chair and eyed his sister, annoyed.

"So," she parroted half-mockingly. "Want to guess what they're using as an energy source?"

"No."

Ginny pouted. "Oh, come on, Bill. Don't be such a wet blanket. Play the game."

Bill glared at her for a moment before relenting. "Fine. Coal," he threw out. It wasn't even his best guess, merely the application of common knowledge that the Muggles still, to some extent, used coal in energy production.

Ginny's smile went wide. "Nope."

"Then what?" he asked, annoyed at her playfulness.

"Floo powder."

Bill blinked at that answer, having honestly not expected it. "I _beg_ your pardon?" he asked bewilderedly.

"Floo powder," Ginny reiterated, now grinning. "Well…a Floo powder compound, if I recall correctly," she corrected herself as she recalled the insistent terminology.

Bill, however, was barely listening at this point. His mind was awhirl with the possibilities of using Floo powder as an energy source. How had the Muggles done it? Harry Potter was no theoretical wizard, and while he knew there were many others in Potter's camp who weren't Military Mages _per se_, he couldn't think of one who would've found a way to adapt Floo powder to Muggle technology. Not without shorting it out, anyway.

"How?" he finally asked. Honestly, he couldn't think of a way that was feasible.

"One of Potter's crew seems to have found a way to slow down the burning rate of fuel crystals," she told him with a smile, knowing how much this was probably tormenting him. Bill prided himself on being the most intelligent of the Weasley brothers, and the fact that a Muggle scientist—he refused to believe that it was a wizard or witch who'd made the discovery—had beaten him to the punch was galling.

However, with that slight hint from Ginny, Bill quickly wracked his knowledge of Floo powder enough to find the answer all by himself. "They increased the Floo dosage in the mix!" he exclaimed with dawning realization. "That…That's _brilliant_!"

"Isn't it?" she asked with a smile. "A Muggle made the discovery," she told him.

Bill waved that off. "Of course they did," he easily accepted that fact. "Our society is stagnant, uncreative. Heck, _I_ couldn't make the connection!" he exclaimed as he quickly got up and went to the blackboard where some calculations could be seen strewn all over the place. With a swish of his wand, the messy scrawls were gone. Grabbing a piece of chalk, he quickly began writing down the formula that was forming in his head. "Yes…yes…that could do it," he mumbled.

"Aren't you glad you have me as a sister?" Ginny asked wryly as she watched her brother work.

"You're a dear, Gin," he said absently and more out of habit than heartfelt gratitude. After a while, he stopped writing and looked at the long formula with growing excitement. "Ginny, if this works…we'll have changed the face of magic forever," he said, a somewhat crazed grin on his face as he continued going over the calculations in his head.

Ginny smiled knowingly at her brother's back, unconcerned about his lack of gratitude. Bill might have thought her contribution to have been made solely out of concern for her brother's success, but she had other plans.

For now, however, she would let her brother relish his victory.

"Well, try to wash up before you make any big announcements," she told him as she hopped off his workbench and landed nimbly on her toes. "Don't want your rapt audience to faint because they're downwind from you."

"Yes, yes…"

Knowing Bill was officially out of sync with reality now, Ginny shook her head with a smile and left him to his work, emerging from the cavern-esque room with an exasperated smile. Shielding her eyes from the sudden burst of sunlight, Ginny turned to close Bill's door to his workshop and then walked away, pausing after about twenty paces.

"Colin," she said simply.

Taking off his invisibility spell, Colin appeared behind her and to her left. "Yes."

"I think it's time to initiate Contingency Eagle," she told him casually as she closed her eyes and enjoyed the soft, spring breeze. "See to it."

Colin nodded once. "It will be done."

Without a word, or a sound, Colin Disapparated, leaving Ginny to herself.

Smiling up at the blue, almost cloudless sky, Ginny couldn't help the feeling of a job well done.

Everything was now going according to plan.

* * *

**Cardiff, Southern Wales, April 15****th****, 2011…**

"Surely you jest, Lord Warwick."

Joshua smiled as he faced the ruling council of the loyalist Southern Welsh region, the Cyngor De Cymru. After having stayed in the city for five days, he had finally been granted an audience with the council. Not that it was wasted time, however. Joshua had made full use of the waiting period by having his delegation plant spies amongst the populace. At the same time, to keep up appearances, Joshua had hosted many of the Council's members or close associates of theirs at his hotel suite, thereby garnering good feelings towards him as he now stood before the assembled council.

"I apologize if my tone seemed humorous, Councillors," Joshua said smoothly. "But I assure you that I did not make a joke. With His Majesty currently sitting on his throne in Liverpool, why have the Chiefs not surrendered their authoritarian control over Southern England to him?" he asked rhetorically. "I can only think of one reason—they do not recognize his power over them."

"Or maybe they suspect Potter to be influencing His Majesty's state of mind," pointed out one of the councillors.

"And myself?" asked Joshua calmly. "Am I, too, under Potter's influence?"

Silence greeted his question. "I am no less of a patriot than you, gentlemen," he reminded them. "And I believe my record speaks for itself on matters of my love for our country. As such, and considering there is no mage present to affect my mind, I ask you—will you trust _my_ word that His Majesty is under no more of a compulsion than I am?"

The councillors seemed uneasy with the position Joshua had put them in. Joshua's record as a staunch supporter of the crown in the days leading up to the purge of Parliament was well known to everyone in power. He, along with Michael White, were names synonymous with loyalty and efficiency, and questioning his word of honour now would be a huge insult—an insult they didn't think their region could stand to give, considering the North's great military might.

"Furthermore, if we were operating under a treasonous agenda, why would we have gotten rid of the nationalists in the north?" Joshua added in smoothly with a smile, slowly adding on pressure on the councillors to accept him as a legitimate messenger from the crown. "Why didn't the Chiefs? It seems to me, councillors, that of the two factions, ours seems to be the most preoccupied with eliminating the anarchy plaguing our great nation."

As the councillors seemed to shift uneasily in their seats, Joshua knew he had them in the palm of his hand. While it would be easily arguable that the North had initiated the anarchy, the Chiefs' record of brutality and refusal to cooperate with the North played against them. Add to that the fact that the North had done Southern Wales a favour by eliminating the nationalist threat in the north, and Joshua knew the balance was on his side.

"Councillors, we are not asking for an overt declaration of allegiance, or even of alliance," Joshua reminded them easily. "We just wish to establish ties of friendship between the Imperial capital and Cardiff—a reminder, if unofficial, of the fact that we all belong to one country."

"Why the generous terms, Lord Warwick?" asked one of the more partial councillors. To be honest, the man had a point. Joshua could have easily strutted in and demanded their allegiance to Liverpool, but hadn't. It was most curious indeed.

Joshua gave a knowing look at the assembled councillors. "His Majesty is not blind," he answered. "We are well aware that if you were to declare your support for Liverpool, it would make you a target for those factions which may be…unsupportive of the capital's move to Liverpool."

The euphemistic way with which Joshua referred to the Chiefs of Staff was not lost on the councillors, who began exchanging murmurs and whispered debates as they considered Joshua's offer.

The offer had merit—there was no arguing that. While relations were currently tense with the North, they weren't hostile or even resentful. Rather, their stance of loyal neutrality in the conflict between the two factions claiming to be upholders of the crown was one made out necessity, considering their relative lack of strength in comparison to the North or London.

With this unofficial tie to the North, however, Southern Wales could again benefit from trade with the more industrialized sectors of England—the loss of which had been devastating to the region.

"What _guarantee_ can you give us that this won't earn Southern Wales the ire of the Chiefs of Staff?" asked one of the more reluctant councillors. "After all, we stand to lose a lot more than you do if word got out."

Joshua smiled comfortingly. "There will be no paper trail, councillors," Joshua stated simply. "Nothing to officially tie you with the North. All we would have is your word that you recognize that the official capital is in Liverpool, and that we are the legitimate upholders of the Crown's will."

It was an amazing deal. Not only would the Southern Welsh have access once more to the Northern markets, but the fact that there was no paper trail essentially meant they held no real obligation to the North to provide support if hostilities were to arise. They would gain everything, at literally a cost of nothing.

"We will consider your offer," the chairman of the council eventually said after murmured debate amongst the councillors. "We should have an answer for you by the Wednesday, Lord Warwick. Until then, feel free to enjoy our city's hospitality."

Joshua gave the council a gracious smile and bow in thanks for their patience before leaving the room. Outside, waiting for him in the anteroom, was his ostensibly chief aide in the delegation—Albert Hughes. In reality, he was there to deploy the North's spy ring in Cardiff.

"How did it go?" asked the Head of Military Intelligence when they had left the building and entered their town car—courtesy of the North. After all, they couldn't trust that any local car given to them wouldn't be bugged.

"Perfectly," Joshua answered as he leaned back, poured himself a glass of scotch on the rocks, and enjoyed the taste of it. "They fell for it hook, line, and sinker. I daresay we should have little trouble with your operations here when the time comes."

Albert smiled conspiratorially. "They suspect nothing?"

"Nothing that I could tell," Joshua reassured his colleague. "The economic crisis here is a major factor to that, I imagine," he analysed as he glanced out the tinted windows.

Cardiff, once the proud capital of Wales, had suffered greatly throughout the troubles that hit the United Kingdom. With the economy all but collapsing and the country split, it had lost access to nearly every commodity it required to sustain its pre-war status quo. As such, Joshua wasn't surprised that the deal he offered, which would reopen Southern Wales to the North's markets, had been so eagerly approved of. Sure, they hadn't given their official nod, but Joshua didn't doubt for a minute that they would eventually ratify the deal—he wouldn't even be surprised if they summoned him a few days in advance of their self-imposed deadline.

All in all, it was a job well done.

* * *

**Liverpool, United Kingdom, April 16****th****, 2011…**

"Harry seems to be doing well."

Sirius chuckled into his glass at his best friend's rather self-evident remark. "You could say that," he said casually before drinking.

"You did good while raising him, Sirius," James Potter remarked, a little dully.

Sirius could guess why. "I might have been the one around running interference, mate, but I taught him nothing he didn't already know from you and Lily," Sirius assured his friend. "He doesn't resent you, you know. He gets why you couldn't be around."

"Doesn't make it right, though," James grumbled before taking a swig of his own glass. "We shouldn't have had to hide."

"And that's why Harry's doing this," Sirius reminded his best friend. "So you don't have to. Heck, you're here now, right? Could you have done so thirty years ago without the Ministry coming down on you? Twenty?"

"No…" James conceded reluctantly.

"So chin up, Prongs," he said easily, grinning as he used his best friend's old nickname from their Marauder days. "You're a big boss-man now. Can't afford to sulk. Especially not considering your job."

"Minister for the Masses," James said, chuckling despite himself. "Not exactly the retirement I had in mind when we came back."

"Hey, if I have to work, you have to work," Sirius mock-glared. "Besides, we needed someone we could trust to take over Warwick's post."

"Ah, yes…Baron Warwick," James mused out loud. "Quite the character," he commented.

Sirius snorted. "That's tame. He's an elitist, career politician," Sirius corrected facetiously. "He knows it, too. He doesn't mind being called what he is."

"That's a first."

"Well, better that than your garden variety politician. I spent years with them in Parliament, and I _still_ don't know whether I could have called any of them friends," Sirius remarked.

James flinched at that. "Sorry about not being around," he apologized suddenly.

Sirius looked at James askance. "That wasn't meant as a reproach, James," Sirius told his friend seriously, though he could see the Potter patriarch wasn't totally convinced. "Look, mate; you busted me out of bloody _Azkaban_, right? As far as I'm concerned, everything I've done so far has been time well spent."

"Even starting a civil war?" James asked, suddenly serious.

Sirius was silent at his friend's question, realizing that James was questioning whether or not Sirius was having second thoughts about his involvement in the cause. It was a fair question, given everything Sirius had lived through and seen happen to the country he called home.

Yet, just as he had asked it many times before, so too had he answered it.

"Yes," he answered. "Even that."

"You're a stronger man than I, then," James remarked dryly.

Sirius eyed his friend as he drank from his glass. "What's eating at you?" he asked unnecessarily, knowing full well James was having his doubts about their methods.

"…Was it really necessary to incite all of this?" James asked, sounding a little bitter. "Was it really necessary to incite _civil war_?"

Sirius shrugged. "Your son seems to think so," Sirius pointed out. "And so far, he hasn't been proven wrong. Have you _seen_ the northern territories? Tell me if it was as prosperous before all this trouble started as it is now."

"At the cost of millions of lives!" James shot back.

"It's regrettable, yes, but what other choice did we have?" Sirius asked right back, keeping his famed temper in check. "James, this continent was headed straight towards another world war. The last one didn't bring any closure. What we're doing now? In the long run, it'll spare the continent a fate much worse than the one we're bringing to them."

James seemed unwilling to yield, but did eventually back down, still looking a bit disgruntled. "I just can't stand to see my home being burned down this way."

Sirius shrugged. "Who can?" he asked rhetorically. "But, as always, we must endure. No change has ever come about without due sacrifice."

* * *

**Nottingham, Nottinghamshire, April 16, 2011…**

_Click. Click._

The almost imperceptible sound of the camera's shutter opening and closing as she snapped away photos of the man she was tailing was all the company Josefina had at the moment. Making sure to obscure the lens with a little grime—not enough to blur the photographs, but enough to avoid a pesky reflection of sunlight from giving away her position—she had tailed her target, a man by the name of Gregory Emerson who worked for the councillor as his apparent gofer. Except, Emerson seemed to have duties beyond the Council House for the Councillor, and the dates he was seen outside the Council House during work hours seemed to coincide with certain dates she's painstakingly managed to uncover relating to apparently inoffensive shipments of medicine from the south.

Unlike the councillor proper, whom Josefina had all but given up on tailing while he was in his paranoid mood, Emerson seemed to be basking in the invincibility of youth. He barely ever made sure he wasn't being followed, he didn't keep a steady, fast pace, or even tried to act inconspicuous. Honestly? She felt a little insulted by how easy it was to keep tabs on her target.

Feeling a little disgruntled, she snapped away photographs of the plain looking man as he very casually, with a strut in his step and a hideous shirt to make him into every sniper's wet dream, entered an alleyway she had scouted ahead. It had been one of the many locations she suspected the councillor to be housing the illegal weaponry, given its ready access to various warehouses.

Sighing as she put away her camera and made sure every piece of equipment on her person was strapped on tight, she took a few steps back and, as Captain Price had "taught" her in Spain, jumped the gap between her building and the next, landing on the rooftop in a smooth roll. Parkour, Price had called it—awesome, was _her_ term for it.

Using her own momentum, she sprinted across the flat rooftop of the building and, using the small parapet at the edge of the roof, launched herself at the fire escape of the one beyond. With expert agility, she hoisted herself onto the fire escape and quickly made her way up to the rooftop to continue her acrobatic trek.

As she made her way towards the alleyway she'd seen Emerson disappear into, she smiled to herself as she realized how much she'd changed over the years. Back before the war in her native homeland, she would've never even _thought_ of doing anything like this—she'd been perfectly content with going to school with her friends, being an average teenager, maybe falling in love, and so forth. A perfectly average life for a perfectly average girl.

Then the war had consumed her country, and amidst the chaos she had found refuge in the larger-than-life person of Harry Potter—her personal saviour. While she had, for the most part, gotten over her traumatizing experience at the hands of the drunken British soldiers, she never failed to credit Harry's patience with her for much of her progress. Captain Price and the other fellows from the SAS who'd ostensibly rejected her pleas for help had also helped to restore her confidence in herself. Heck, without their help, she doubted she would've have been able to do half the things she could!

Landing softly on the building rooftop adjacent to the alleyway she knew to be her destination, she quietly and quickly toed her way towards the edge and lay on the concrete floor, ignoring the fact that her clothes would get all dirty from doing so. Edging her head slightly above the protective parapet, she glanced down to make sure no one was around, and smiled to herself as she spotted no one.

Still, it paid to be certain about these things, and she wasn't one of Harry's most trusted agents for nothing. Smoothly pulling out a couple of canisters, she uncapped the tubes and let out the marble balls within them into the alleyway, quickly ducking back when she heard them sound out loudly as they made contact with the street and dustbins.

Nothing.

She hadn't heard any doors open, or any sounds of confusion. Peeking over the edge again, she gave the darkened alley another once over before concluding no one was around. That made sense, in a way. The less of an obvious presence, the easier it was to miss.

The question was, which warehouse had Emerson specifically gone into? As far as her reconnoitring had uncovered, there were five warehouses along this alleyway. Although not the large, sprawling warehouses typically found in dockyards, they were still large enough for Josefina to feel a little disgruntled at the prospect of check each of their windows.

Hoisting herself into a squat, she turned and, in a crouched position, stepped her way towards the first skylight, making sure to keep her steps slow, light, and deliberate, in order to avoid making any noise. Xeno had once told her the most important thing for an agent wasn't a kill count, but rather the ability to be invisible.

Taking his philosophy to heart, Josefina took twice as long as it would have taken her by run to reach the first skylight. At its edge, she knelt down and looked around the visible areas of the warehouse—nothing. Not even the lights were on, and it seemed completely deserted.

Grumbling under her breath at the wasted time, she moved towards the second warehouse, still keeping her visible presence as small as possible. Looking through the second skylight, she saw some activity within, but nothing more than a few security guards doing inventory. Well, that and a stray cat that seemed to have found a way in.

The third skylight proved to be more interesting. Apparently some teenagers had broken in, and while a couple were busy fooling around with the stored objects, another couple were fooling around with each other. Shaking her head in exasperation, she moved on to the fourth.

Jackpot.

Looking through the skylight, she could see Emerson in the middle of a soundless argument with another figure. Judging by the fact that the unknown person was waving around something distinctly coloured and thick, she assumed the argument was about money, particularly when Emerson pointed to the wooden boxes, then the stack in the person's hand, and then shook his head vigorously.

Reaching behind her, she unstrapped her camera and, carefully lying down at the edge of the skylight, snapped off a couple of photographs of the duo, paying peripheral attention to the slew of guards that seemed to pervade throughout the warehouse. If this was an innocent operation of medicinal nature, why have so many guards? More to the point, what kind of warehouse security guard wielded an M16?

Having taken the minimum amount necessary of evidentiary photographs, Josefina put aside the camera and reached into her messenger's pouch for her two new toys—courtesy of Xeno. Bringing out a small dish-like device, assorted cables, and what seemed to be a small radio, she hooked it all up and set it next to her, aimed at the arguing duo inside while she resumed her photographic surveillance.

After a moment of self-calibrating, the radio began emitting the duo's voices—though she could only recognize Emerson's.

"…care if your…wants more," Emerson was saying angrily, the device requiring a little more juice to capture the conversation better, which Josefina gladly gave it. "The Councillor and he had a deal. Money doesn't grow on trees, and we're already spending a fortune in the raids on the North—_none_ of which have succeeded, despite your assurances!" he accused the other person.

"Circumstances have changed," a male voice argued smoothly. "Acquiring the weapons you need is no longer a simple matter, especially with the North having so easily acquired northern Wales."

"And what of the raids?" asked Emerson. "What's your excuse as to why they aren't working?"

"I admit, we may have underestimated the abilities of the officer corps of the North," the man conceded. "However, we did provide you with the necessary information to deliver critical strikes against the defenders. That you were incapable of doing so is not our concern."

Josefina glowered at the two men, already hating their guts. With what she'd just recorded, she could damn Nottingham, at the very least, for their deliberate attacks on the North—particularly that Councillor. Heck, she could undoubtedly ring up Xeno, relay the information, and a hit squad would Apparate right in the middle of the Councillor's home and take him out.

Fighting that urge was the hardest thing she'd ever had to do. While it would have been sweet to know she'd had the man killed, she hungered to know who it was that was supplying the Councillor with his information and weaponry. If there was a mole in the North, then she couldn't pass up on the opportunity to root them out.

"Your information is crap!" Emerson accused whilst he jabbed a finger in the man's chest. "Every so-called 'weak spot' was heavily reinforced! The Councillor has had to explain himself numerous times before the Council as to why the militia is being sent to their deaths!"

With a smooth move, the man swatted away Emerson's jabbing finger. "Don't forget yourself, _boy_," snarled the man. "You're just a lackey for your boss. Nothing more."

That served to cow Emerson just a bit, though judging by his body language, he was still somewhat rebellious. "Fine," Emerson allowed through gritted teeth. "What excuse do you want me to tell the Councillor for your inability to find adequate intelligence on the North?"

"If there _is_ a problem with our sources, we will find it and deal with it ourselves," the dealer stated imperiously. "Our company's reputation is at stake, after all."

Judging from Emerson's slumping shoulders, Josefina gathered the aide had expected something more. She herself felt frustrated that neither Emerson nor the dealer had provided her with anything else.

"Very well," Emerson agreed. "I will relay the new prices and your explanation—pathetic as it is—to the Councillor," he stated with a derisive sniff. To the man's credit, the dealer didn't seem bothered by the show of arrogance—no doubt he was used to dealing with this sort of person.

"Do what you must, Mr. Emerson," the dealer said easily, waving him off dismissively.

With a harrumph, Emerson turned and left the premises, making Josefina sigh in defeat as she turned off the hearing dish and finish taking the last of her photographs. Nothing useful. A mercenary company dealing information—which did mean someone in the North was leaking secrets (even if they were, perhaps, a little out of date)—and weaponry to an overambitious two-bit Councillor. Hardly the sort of stuff you'd send a mage hit squad to deal with. No doubt Xeno would later pass down the order for her to take care of the man personally.

Well, at least she'd take pleasure from gutting Emerson. The weasel would have it coming.

Packing up her equipment as quietly as she could, she soon made her way off the warehouse's rooftop and was quickly on her way back to her out-of-the-way hotel, where she knew she'd be able to contact Xeno safely.

She was _so_ not looking forward to the 'I told you so' speech.

* * *

At the same time as the young spy left the premises, the dealer was doing an amazing job at restraining his temper and thus holding himself back from killing that brat Emerson where he'd stood. It took remarkable self-control even to prevent himself from ordering some of his escorts to chase him down and murder him in broad daylight.

Unfortunately, his orders had been clear—make contact with Emerson, feed him some cock-and-bull story about prices going up and faulty information, and report back.

"Bloody freaks and their weird-arse orders," he grumbled as he brought out a small disc from his pocket and brought it up to his eyesight. What had they called the golden thing again?

A Galleon?

Rubbing its numbers the way he'd been instructed to—seriously? What was wrong with these people?—he was surprised when he felt the number reliefs shift beneath his thumb. He was even more surprised when two figures suddenly popped out of nowhere before him.

"God _damnit_!" he breathed as he recovered from his shock. "I'll never get used to you freaks!"

"Good," one of the newly appeared mages—a man in a brown, hooded cloak—stated in satisfaction. "Saves me the trouble of having to like you."

"Easy now," the man's companion—a woman in a green cloak—interrupted before any hostilities could break out. Turning towards the dealer, she nodded her hooded head in greeting. "We received your message. Is it done?"

The dealer sneered as he tossed the Galleon at her—which, to his surprise, the mage in the brown cloak caught with lightning reflexes before it even reached his companion. "Aye," he agreed after a moment, still a little shocked by the cloaked mage's reflex speed. "Emerson bought it."

The mage in the brown cloak snorted.

"And the spy?" asked his companion.

The dealer looked at the pair in confusion. "What spy?" he asked. "I never heard anything about no spy!"

The two mages glanced at each other for a moment before the one in the brown cloak nodded and, with a soft pop, disappeared from sight. Within seconds, he was back.

"Very faint footprints on the roof," he reported simply. "Whoever it was, they were good."

Looking alarmed, the dealer shook his head quickly. "No!" he denied. "I had nothing to do with no spy!" he was quick to deny—the last thing he wanted was for these two to think he was scamming them in any way.

The mage in the brown cloak tilted his head slightly. "Are you an idiot?" he deadpanned. "Of course you didn't. Who'd spy on their own meeting?"

His companion giggled. "Regardless," she brought them back on track, "this means our plan worked. My thanks, Mr. Corrigan," she said honestly.

The dealer, feeling a little out of his depth, nonetheless sneered at her. "Whatever," he said dismissively. "I'll be needing my payment now."

The female mage nodded. "Of course," she agreed before turning her head towards her companion. "Colin? Please reward these gentlemen for their efforts."

Without a word, the mage in question nodded and disappeared before their very eyes, startling Corrigan. The shock was quickly gone as he heard two sudden cries of alarm followed by two thuds. Turning, Corrigan was appalled to see his two guards lifted a foot in the air, knives protruding from their throats and holding them up and their weapons on the ground—their lifeless fingers having lost their grip on them. Between them stood the mage, his grisly work done.

Turning to face the green-cloaked mage with rapidly purpling complexion, Corrigan felt the wind get knocked out of him as something painful entered his abdomen. Shakily looking down, he was horrified to realize that a wicked looking knife—not unlike the ones that had dispatched his men—had now lodged itself there.

Words failed him as he looked up at the green-cloaked female mage, whose clear lower face revealed a knowing smile. Failing to get out a few cursing last words, Corrigan slumped to the ground at the mage's feet, dead.

The mage in question sighed as she gazed down at her handiwork and then frowned as blood threatened to seep onto her shoes. With an absent kick at the dealer's corpse—no great loss there, considering the kind of scum he was—she turned her attention to her partner, who had let go of the knives and allowed his victims to fall to the ground and so join their master in death.

"You know what to do," she told him. "Corrigan's cell has to be wiped out. Make sure to make it look like the Death Eaters did it," she reminded him.

Colin nodded gravely. "Of course," he agreed without question. "Think Potter'll fall for it?"

"If we do our jobs right, he will," the mage assured him. "Your precious Ginny planned it all out, remember?" she said with a slight sneer. It was sometimes nauseating to see how devotedly loyal Colin was to their leader. While she was worth following—much more than those idiots on the Order of the Phoenix council, anyway—she still felt annoyed by the unquestioning loyalty Colin displayed.

When Colin failed to snap back, she knew she'd hit a nerve, but didn't care. As she was his assigned partner in this mission, he wouldn't lift a finger against her.

Against orders and all that.

Bloody pansy.

Either way, she'd done her job—and done it well, in her opinion. With the operation now in play, she'd lay the suspicion of tampering with the Councillor fall entirely on the Death Eaters, thus bringing the fury of the North upon their enemies.

She smiled to herself, glad the sunlight cast a shadow on her cloaked face now.

'_Now, Potter…let me see how you'll react to this move._'

* * *

**Liverpool, United Kingdom, April 18****th****, 2011…**

"You're absolutely sure about this?" asked Harry as he headed the Council's investigative session into Xeno's report regarding Nottingham. For the first time since its inception, the Council lacked the tie-breaking vote of the king, whose condition had taken a turn for the worse in the past few days.

"Undoubtedly," Xeno confirmed as he stood before the assembled Royal Council. "Our operative in Nottinghamshire managed to tape the session in most, if not its total entirety, along with photographs. In addition, when news of the dealer's murder—whom we have now identified as one John Corrigan—broke, our operative followed it up with her own investigation, leading her to a previously unknown warehouse on the fringe of the city. All occupants within were murdered."

"With these same knives the operative reported present at the initial crime scene?" asked James Potter, the Council's newest addition, for confirmation.

Xeno nodded. "Indeed. It seems to have been a message directed at Corrigan's superiors. We have hypothesized that it may have to do with the monetary dispute," he confirmed and explained. "The designs, as some of us may recognize, are quite identifiable, which gives credence to the idea that it was left as a symbolic message."

"The snake and skull," observed William idly, easily recognizing the symbol from his days growing up and reading up on magical history. "Death Eaters."

"But why would Death Eaters be trafficking in Muggle weaponry and information?" asked Sirius, having been intimately familiar with the knives in question; they had been material signs of devoted allegiance during the First War. No one captured with a knife could claim to be anything but a fanatic. "They don't exactly need Muggle currency, and beyond messing around with us, the information they've acquired is a nuisance more than a danger."

"Considering they're mostly a collection of inbred psychopaths, perhaps they can't distinguish good intel from bad?" proposed Speirs with a sardonic smirk.

"This isn't the time to be fooling around, Speirs," warned Sirius.

"Jokes aside, Speirs has a point," William pointed out, drawing attention back to him. "Death Eaters are cunning and brutal warriors, but they have never had to deal with Muggles in an extended period—thus, it does not fall outside reason for them to blunder their way through illegal weapons dealings and information trading."

"Nonetheless, this is what we've been waiting for!" Curtis said with an excited banging of her fist on the table. "Nottingham's colluding with mage traitors! If that's not a good reason to invade, then I don't know what is!"

"Perhaps so, but we should consider our own situation," Warwick pointed out. "Southern Wales has only just agreed to our whole 'ties of friendship' ploy. It would be unwise to unsettle them so early on with an aggressive move—even if it _is_ against traitors."

"Our defensive perimeter along our southern border is at its strongest—we should not jeopardize that by pushing our lines forward," agreed Harry. "Rather, we should be looking into the implications of this information. Xeno?" he prompted the older man.

Bowing his head gratefully at the chance to be heard again, Xeno offered up his opinion freely. "The information we've gathered does indeed seem to prove Death Eater involvement, of some kind, in the going-on's of Nottinghamshire. While we have yet to ascertain their exact extent, we have thus far theorized that they're feeling confident enough in their war against the Order to commence staging such indirect attacks on our own territories," he analysed. "This _should_ signify that we our garrison strength along the northern border ought to be reinforced, just to prepare for the possibility of either raids or full-on attacks against us."

"They'll never take my wall," Curtis growled defiantly. "My men are fine as they are."

"Nonetheless, it would perhaps be a good idea to strengthen the garrison in the north at some point," Xeno pointed out. "After all, if the Death Eaters have begun infiltrating administrations south of Scotland, there's no telling how far they've gotten—it's never been a priority till right now."

'Worrisome…" Sirius grunted as he read through the report with closer attention to the details.

"I know this seems perhaps a bit premature, but have we positively identified the leaks?" asked James. "After all, while obsolete, the information they provided Nottingham _was_ valid a while ago, and never declassified."

Xeno shook his head. "We have yet to identify the perpetrator, though we are combing the Military Mages for any potential traitor," he reported.

"What about Muggles?" pressed James, surprising the group.

"What about them?" asked Warwick.

James tapped the report before him pensively. "Well, from what I'm gathering, we're assuming that the possible leaks we have in our government could only come from our military mages. But what about the Muggles? Is it so inconceivable that those who do not use magic be swayed over to the Death Eaters, or Order?" he asked.

The Council mulled over James' suggestion, and Sirius was the first to voice his support for James' analysis.

"He's right," concurred Sirius. "Unlike Military Mages, we _know_ non-magical citizens are more susceptible to magical influence. It would, in fact, be much easier to infiltrate a spy by way of a Muggle, as James mentioned, than a military mage."

"Can we monitor for any such magicked citizen?" asked Curtis curiously.

Xeno nodded. "We can—we just never assumed it was necessary," he admitted bashfully. "It will take time to conduct such an investigation, however."

"What if the leak isn't being magicked into subservience?" asked William then, once again plunging the Council into silent thought.

"Then we have a problem," admitted Harry uneasily. "We cannot impose Unbreakable Vows on Muggles. Their lack of magic would mean it is totally ineffective."

"We'll have to tighten our security measures in all government departments," agreed Sirius. "This is a precarious time. We can't afford a major leak at this time."

"What about outside departments?" questioned William as he zeroed in on the more important issue. "We cannot just stop a traitor from giving out information freely once he's left government premises."

"There's no telling what kind of magical methods of communication have been set up to facilitate such leaks," agreed Warwick with a grimace. "I hate to say it, but we _may_ need to set up our own Ministry of Magic to deal with the situation. At the very least, we could then regulate the use of magic within our territory."

There was an uncomfortable silence among the group as they digested that conclusion. As Joshua had said, it _was_ unfortunate, but perhaps at the same time it was high time they acknowledged the inefficiency of having the military mages oversee such things in addition to their own duties.

"A vote, then," Harry sighed. "The motion to establish a Ministry of Magic to oversee the use of magic within the northern territories has been put forward by the Minister of the Foreign Office. Are there any seconds?" he asked solemnly, as befitted the procedure.

Sirius raised his hand. "Seconded," he stated.

Harry nodded. "The motion is seconded. We will now proceed to a vote," he declared. "All voting members in favour?" he asked, raising his hand soon after.

Every hand was up. Not surprising, considering they typically had unanimous votes for most major policies.

"Passed in unanimity," Harry declared, and no one bothered to point out that the king had to approve the creation of the Ministry—not even Joshua, who seemed to have made his peace with the fact that the king was dying. "By vote, the Ministry of Magic will be established. Who shall lead the newly created Ministry?" he asked.

Almost immediately, the Royal Council, minus Xeno, exploded again into discussion. Harry sighed—this was going to be a _long_ day.

* * *

**Liverpool, United Kingdom, April 20****th****, 2011..**

It had finally happened.

The king, after such a long time holding onto his crippled life, had finally taken a final turn for the worse.

The news spread throughout the north like wildfire, aided in part by the government itself as it released the news in such a manner as to maximize coverage. It also helped them that the news was being presented in such a manner as to remind the people that the reason the king was dying were the Death Eaters and the Chiefs of Staff, who were responsible for the king's need to flee the ancient capital in London.

While not yet dead, the king would not last the night, even as he lay in his private room at the Royal Liverpool University Hospital, hooked up to every relevant machine known to man.

Outside his window, crowding the area directly in front of the hospital's main entrance, were thousands of well-wishers and supporters of the Crown from all over the united regions, and even some from beyond. All of them held slow-burning candles in their hands as they gathered in vigil, praying for their monarch's brittle health, unsalvageable as it may be right now.

Nonetheless, the show of support moved the crippled monarch, even if he could not see it.

"…my people…" he wheezed from his bed as he looked out towards the window, admiring the orange glow at the very bottom of it that showed the strength of the gathered candlelight.

Harry, who stood by the window, also admiring the show of support, nodded solemnly. "They wish you well, Your Majesty," he spoke humbly and regretfully. While he did covet the man's throne, he wished the monarch no harm—he had proven to be agile of mind, brave of heart, and devoted in spirit towards his country—all traits he could easily admire.

"…I fear their wishes are…" the king took a deep, rattling breath. "…unlikely to be fulfilled…"

Harry gave a sorrowful nod as his eyes fell on the black and white pieces of cloth tied to their own respective sticks, both leaned against the windowsill. They were meant to be flown out the window as a first-hand confirmation of the king's state of being. So far, the white flag had been flown every two hours, but everyone knew the black flag would be flown eventually, and all feared what that would herald.

After all, the king had no biological heirs. His condition had left him incapable of producing an heir, which meant that upon his death, the British throne would sit empty for the first time since Cromwell had overthrown Charles I.

"Are you afraid, Your Majesty?" asked Harry, finally voicing one of the things he'd been yearning to ask for quite some time now. After all, how did one go on living in a body that was more of a prison than anything else?

"Of…death…?" asked the dying king in between deep, laboured breaths. "…not….anymore," he said with a weak smile. "…when one lives in a prison…one savours the moment of one's release…"

Harry eyed the king, unable to comprehend that. Personally, Harry feared death above all else at the moment. He had so much to do, so much he had planned, that the very idea of having all that stolen from him terrified him. His illusion of invulnerability, prompted by his youth, had long since disappeared, leaving him with the cold dread of the end. To see the cripple king welcome the release of death, thus, was incomprehensible to him.

"Do you…remember…your promises to me?" asked the king then, his weakened expression turning serious. It pained Harry to see the young king—for young he still was, look so tired and aged. He dearly hoped he would not share the king's fate.

Harry walked over to the king's bedside and nodded as he brought his fist to his heart. "I do, Your Majesty," he stated, glad that the two had been left alone.

"And…are you…resolute?" asked the monarch, his gaze sharp even if his body was slowly failing him.

Harry thought back to the third promise the king had elicited of him and nodded. "I am, Your Majesty," he assured the dying man.

The king smiled a bit before coughing violently, his heart rate skyrocketing suddenly, much to Harry's alarm. Outside, he could hear several anxious nurses and doctors begin knocking on the door, but the king ignored them all and kept his attention on Harry.

"Your…" he gasped for air, "Your…enemies…will be legion…Harry Potter…" he wheezed. "You…will face hardships…" he swallowed shakily, and the heart rate monitor began to note a decrease in heart rate. "…unthinkable to most men…but I…I am betting on _you_…"

Harry had no words to give the dying king—nothing came to mind to pay tribute to the final show of defiance towards death the monarch was displaying in order to give his final words. So, instead, he knelt by the king's bedside, his head bowed humbly.

"Ch…Change this w-world…Harry Potter," the king began to stutter. "B-Be k-kind…to y-your people…d-defiant before y-your en…enemies," the king swallowed, and the monitor began beeping urgently as the monarch's heart rate reached critical levels.

"…and l-loyal…to y-your vision…" he gasped out, and the heart monitor's beeping reached almost unbearable levels. Now the knocking had become urgent, and Harry was sure that the medical staff would barge in at any moment. The king, too, seemed to realize this, as he turned his gaze upwards towards the white ceiling. "T-The…king dies…long…live…the king…" he said, glancing at Harry as he said the honoured words. Harry could only nod shakily at the acknowledgement from his king.

Then, just as the medical staff finally barged in, racing all around to try and keep their monarch alive, the king gave his final smile as he closed his eyes, becoming the very picture of peace. In that moment, all his ailments seemed to vanish as he spoke his final words, devoid of all the impediments his condition had brought him.

"Ancestors…have I made you proud?"

A long beep resounded in the room amidst the panicked shouting. Harry, his gaze firmly on the king, was all but shoved away from the bed as the orderlies and doctors worked feverishly to bring the king's heart rate back to functional levels.

Harry knew better, however. As he watched the doctors work with feverish abandon, unwilling to let the king go, Harry could only watch as the last king of the United Kingdom, perhaps one of the greatest, bravest men Harry had ever known, finally passed away, a peaceful smile on his face.

The king was dead. Long live the king.

That night, amidst cries of heartfelt grief, the black flag was seen hoisted out of the king's window.

One age was over.

Another was _just_ beginning.

* * *

**_Post-A/N - _**_With this chapter, the civil war is about to heat up as multiple factions on the British Isles vie for supremacy over each other following the death of the sole unifying figure. Stay tuned for the outright British Civil War!_


	13. Chapter XI: Opening Moves

_**AN:** Sorry for the wait on this one. My computer got stolen about a week ago, but I fortunately had everything backed up. Still, it put a cramp on my writing hours, forcing me to write while at work. As a newly minted government employee, I can assure you that's not very often._

_Anyway, here's the opening chapter in the Civil War arc. Ravages of Time lovers, keep an eye open for any references I dotted out throughout the chapter :)_

_-MB_

* * *

**Liverpool, United Kingdom, April 30****th****, 2011...**

Ten days had passed since the death of the king.

Ten days which, to Harry's mind, had felt like ten years.

Beyond the obvious outpouring of public grief, Harry had also had his state tested sorely following the death of the sole unifying symbol in the post-reveal, post-coup world of the United Kingdom. Could his fledgling state survive? Would the people obey him without the legitimizing factor of the king there to buoy his position?

The answer, so far, was yes.

Seizing on the opportunity, Harry immediately took care of the king's burial preparations, all the while making sure that the people could see how hard he and his administration were working to ensure the king's body was dutifully interred in the most honoured way possible. A day of national mourning was also established to coincide with the day of the funeral, thereby allowing Harry and his government to ensure that the visibility of their next move was at its zenith.

The streets were lined with black-themed decorations in a sign of mourning, and veiled crowns adorned the facade of every government building. Every Minister wore a band of black cloth around their left arm, and every flag was kept at half-mast as the state descended into its mourning period.

Beyond the political implications, however, this move on Harry's part also held deep strategic meaning. By showing themselves to be devoutly dedicated to the memory of the departed king, Harry shamed the rest of the country into following their example, thereby assuring that his state remained unperturbed during this period of grief. At the same time, Harry covertly dispatched orders for troops to begin amassing near the Nottinghamshire and Staffordshire borders.

With all eyes fixed solely on Liverpool, no one noticed the deployment.

Another issue Harry took advantage in dealing with was the disappearance of Major Bartel, whose person had yet to be found in the aftermath of Birmingham—not that this was a surprise, considering they had been all but forced from the region when the Chiefs of Staff had taken over the West Midlands. Nonetheless, the death of the king allowed Harry to milk the incident for all the public support it was worth by reminding the populace of Bartel's treason and the conflict he had caused by kidnapping the king. Reminding the people of the heroic sacrifices made by their soldiers, Harry enjoyed the greatest popular support poll results he'd ever had since the start of the Northern state—which were high enough to begin with.

All of these moves, however, would culminate today, on the day of the king's state funeral. The government had pulled out all the stops for this one event, and it showed in the outstanding public turnout for the procession and funerary ceremony. Crowds essentially took up all the space along and on the roads that had been designated for the procession to pass through, except for the thin patch actually necessary for the carriages to move undisturbed. The policemen placed in charge of crowd control had to be firm before the crowd, lest it spill into the path of the procession proper. Motorized traffic, in all of its remaining forms, had essentially ground to a complete halt.

Even so, the procession took nearly five hours to finish.

Between the funerary pace of the whole thing and the spontaneous bursts of grief that drove some people to try and touch the casket or its draped flag, it took the whole thing about three extra hours to get over with, along with two close calls during which the procession had nearly been called off when the procession was nearly overrun by a frantic mob.

The problem was that no one was ignorant of what the event meant. The symbolism of the draped flag and the crown on the king's casket was not lost to anyone; their country was dead. No matter what the politicians said at this point, it was clear that nothing would return to normal after that day.

Civil war was now all but a certainty, and everyone feared the coming times.

To say that Harry did not would have been a grievous lie, but just as much as he feared it, he also welcomed it. After all, he had worked the past few years to engineer this situation—the perfect storm of anarchy, chaos, and global catastrophe he needed to move unimpeded by global alliances or moralistic barriers. Today, regardless of his respect for the departed monarch, was the culmination of years of hard work.

Even so, this didn't prevent him from grieving the loss of the king. However much an obstacle the man was to Harry's ambition, he had been a good man, and Harry truly mourned his loss as he stood amongst the bursting crowd in Liverpool Cathedral. With Elicia at his side, squeezing his hand comfortingly, Harry watched dully as the Archbishop led the Requiem Mass for the last king of the United Kingdom.

Harry had to admire the ceremony—it had been carefully planned by the Archbishop, it seemed, with every last word and detail handpicked to convey the heartfelt grief of the nation the monarch had left behind. Every hymn seemed to tug at the attendees' heartstrings, and more than once Harry heard people weeping and sobbing quietly. Elicia herself had started crying quietly, and for a minute Harry thought she hadn't even noticed, until she finally brought up her sleeve and wiped away the tear streaks.

Fortunately, she hadn't opted to wear makeup.

Eventually, however, the time came for Harry to speak. While the Requiem Mass was an apt tribute to the departed king, what the people really wanted at this time was an assurance from the government. An assurance that all would be well—that their lives wouldn't suffer unduly despite this terrible tragedy.

Unfortunately, Harry knew, as he stepped up towards the podium, that he would not be able to give them such assurances. There was no hiding the civil war that was coming; no hiding that their country was gone. From this point on, the future was uncertain, blank—whatever happened, it would be due to their choices on this moment.

As he took his spot behind the podium, the Archbishop having relegated his position to Harry, he looked over to where Elicia was, seeking reassurance from her. She gave it freely with an encouraging smile, buoying his spirits and hardening his resolve as he took out the folded piece of paper from his inner coat pocket and laid it out flat on the podium.

Harry took a deep breath.

"My fellow countrymen," he began, wincing internally at how corny his introduction was. "We are here today to pay tribute to a great man and a great king," he reminded them unnecessarily. "Crowned in the midst of tragedy and crippled due to events beyond his power, he did not shirk his duties, as many would have, or gave himself over to despair. Instead, limited as he was by the confines of his body and his power, he reigned over our country as the glue that kept our country from tearing itself apart."

He paused there for a moment, taking the opportunity to look carefully at the reactions of his audience. He was pleased to see many heads nodding, while a few sobs could be heard here and there. Taking a breath, he continued his speech.

"It is not right, my fellow countrymen, that I, a mere individual, should be honoured with the task of delivering the funeral oration for so great of spirit a man, instead of his whole country, who owe to him more than they could ever imagine," he continued. "For we must remember, that while our country descended slowly into anarchy, that it was not the will of warlords and opportunists that stayed the hand of civil war, but the mere presence of His Majesty on his throne—supreme, wise, and devoted."

"To his dying day, His Majesty worked tirelessly towards the goal of reunification. His dearest wish was to see the land of his ancestors, of his people, brought back into a single whole once more. Fate, however, was unkind to our king, and he left this plane of existence with his dreams unfulfilled," he said mournfully. He heard a few grumblings of agreement in the audience, and knew he had their attention where he wanted it.

"Yet, even as His Majesty lies in his final repose, finally free of his wretched body, he would not want us dallying in our duties. He would say, 'The past is gone. Attend to the present.' These are words of profound wisdom, which I vow—here, before you all—to adhere to until the day I join His Majesty in eternal sleep."

"And it is in that vein that I would address the most pressing concern. Our future—indeed, our very present, is in extraordinary danger. We are poised on the knife's edge above a pit of violent anarchy as the last link to our great past lies before us, and we must now choose our path," he stated imperiously. "Our country is gone. There is nothing we could do now to return things to the way they were. This is our reality, and it is one we must face."

"That is why, in the spirit of His Majesty's wish and in honour of his dream, I hereby vow to reunite the British Isles under one rule, one name, and one government!" he declared, and to his relief he heard many a shout of agreement as people began to wind themselves up with his speech. "The people of our nation have suffered long enough! The spirit of our ancestors demand an end to the chaos, and I _will make it happen_!"

The scattered shouts stopped then, replaced almost instantly with outright cheering and clapping. What had begun as a funeral oration had quickly turned into a speech of affirmation of Harry's goals, and he couldn't have timed it better. Still grieving from the king's passing, emotions were running at their highest point possible. Coupled with the uncertainty towards the future that plagued much of the population, they were all in the perfect state of mind to fall right into Harry's hands.

Finished with his speech, Harry turned to the Archbishop, who was eying him somewhat critically for having hijacked the ceremony for his political grandstanding, and bowed slightly in respect.

As they passed each other, the Archbishop paused a moment. "It is disrespectful to the dead to use them as political tools," he chastised.

Harry made no outward indication of having heard him. "It is disrespectful to the living as well, but we do what we must," he countered softly, and not a little mournfully, before continuing on to the pew, where Elicia was waiting for him with a smile.

His first step had been taken. Now, on to the second.

* * *

**Liverpool, Northern Territories, May 20****th****, 2011…**

The Northern Territories.

That was their name for now. Everyone, either vocally or privately, had agreed that the United Kingdom was no more, and the name no longer reflected reality. Sure, they could keep it for sentimental reasons, but without a monarch to guide them, how were they a kingdom? With more than half the country under different rulers, how could they claim to be united?

Nor were they a democracy—the Royal Council, which had been the king's _de facto_ regents, was still very much in power, and none of them were elected officials. Nor were there plans to elect any in the near future.

So what were they?

Attitudes differed. Some claimed they were a dictatorship, others that they were merely a transitional state—still uncertain about the path they would take. All agreed, however, that the man who ruled over them was indisputably Harry Potter.

Ruling from the Liverpool Town Hall, his government handled the death of the government as if nothing had happened. Every office that had been set up still worked as usual, and every transport service, every inspector, and every bureaucrat was ordered to work as if no significant change to the country had occurred.

To their credit, this meant that the Northern Territories were the most stable region throughout the British Isles, and Harry made sure that his government's monopoly on information distribution hyped that up. Between the massive infrastructural projects and the radical reorganization of the state, the Northern Territories easily stood out as a nation unto itself.

With the help of those mages who'd foregone military service, the agricultural output of the Northern Territories skyrocketed to such a point where hunger was no longer a constant fear, and a month before the king had died, rationing was officially repealed, to the joy of the entire populace. Unemployment, too, was nonexistent in the North, as everyone's efforts were needed to keep the state running in a self-sustaining manner.

These facts, coupled with Harry's agents working throughout the Chiefs of Staff's controlled regions, ensured that the North acquired a steadily increasing amount of immigrants from the southern half of the British Isles. Bolstered by its native population, plus the Scottish refugees, and new immigrants, the North easily stood as the second greatest power on the isles.

This was a problem, of course, for the Chiefs of Staff.

Despite having lost the authority figure who'd passively empowered them as such, the Chiefs had retained their titles, stubbornly fixated on the idea that they were the legitimate heirs of the United Kingdom. When the Northern Territories changed their name, thus, it was the last straw for the militaristic regime in London.

However, they were in position to declare war just yet. Even if they controlled most of the southern half of England, there were many regions and self-appointed warlords standing between them and the Northern Territories, and as such had to be dealt with first.

This was a fact Harry was banking on. In fact, it had been part of his strategy for the inevitable confrontation between his state and the Chiefs of Staff. If he won the upcoming battle, it would mean his fledgling country would have won the struggle for the position of the United Kingdom's inheriting country.

For now, though, he had to provoke the Chiefs of Staff into hastening their moves. The slower they advanced, the more time they had to consolidate their holdings. This was something Harry couldn't permit. However, beyond these military concerns, Harry also had to worry about the soundness of his civil administration. If the military was willing to fight, but the civilian administrators and bureaucrats faltered, then no amount of resistance would suffice. For this upcoming fight, he would need all sectors of the Northern Territories working together in united concert. Dissent could not be tolerated.

To that end, Harry had several ideas on how to proceed. Firstly, he had the Liverpool City Council Chamber completely stripped bare—its luxurious contents to be sent to any Ministry that needed the chairs or sold to raise funds. Even then, he still had the Chamber listed as the designated meeting place in the event he called for any sort of council.

Instead of sitting on chairs, however, he had the officials and officers both sit on cushions on the floor facing the front of the room, where a dais had been constructed so that Harry could oversee the entire council from his own sitting cushion. Each cushion, in turn, had a small desk in front of it for the officials and officers to write on, if the need arose. Even Harry had his own table. On the surface, the whole thing seemed to be the eccentric idea of the General of the North, but Harry had, in fact, chosen to do this remodelling for its psychological effects. By forcing everyone to sit on the floor together, he was bringing them all to the same level. However, by putting himself on a dais, he was also telling them that he was their superior—their leader. Perhaps the effects wouldn't be immediate, but Harry knew that over time, the association of the dais with power over those not on it would seep into the minds of his subordinates until it went unquestioned.

Of course, there was an added benefit to the austerity measure. To the public, it looked as if Harry had chosen to cut any spending deemed wasteful, instead reinvesting in the territories. Thus, as a consequence of the highly political measure, his approval ratings rose even higher.

However, it wasn't the people's approval he was worried about, but that of his administration, both civil and military. To that end, he ordered a council session to be convened to discuss the impending crisis, though what he saw in the faces of his civilian officials and military officers displeased him, even if he did understand where they were coming from.

Fear.

He couldn't blame them; not really. He'd been scared plenty of times during his career in the military just before an impending battle. What displeased him, however, was that he knew most of them had dallied from their duties as a result of that fear.

"As we all know, the Chiefs of Staff have begun their march north to reclaim the Northern Territories, even if they haven't declared that outright." Harry declared as he sat observing the gathered high officials and officers of his government. No one here lacked power, and that was why crushing their fear now was of immediate importance. "This meeting, as such, has been called to discuss the present situation and the methods with which we shall deal with this crisis."

Looking towards Sirius, he nodded his head at him in a tacit sign of permission. "Minister White, please give us an overview of the situation," he ordered.

Silently nodding and rising from his cushion, Sirius walked over to the dais and stopped just short of it to turn around and face the gathered audience. Drawing out a clicker from his pocket, he aimed it above his shoulder and activated it. Almost immediately, a map of the Northern Territories and the adjacent regions began to unfurl behind Harry for all to see. Two attendants, already on hand and aptly equipped, moved to the sides of the map to point out the appropriate locations with laser pointers.

"As we are all aware, defensive preparations have already begun throughout the region to deal with the impending crisis," he reminded the assembled officials. "From Liverpool itself to Newcastle, programmes have already begun to stockpile surplus foodstuffs and supplies necessary for the defense of our major cities and their associated regions. Furthermore, to maintain communications in the event of a blackout, telegraph lines have been installed to provide backup communications. However, these are merely some of the precautionary measures we have undertaken since a few months ago in the event this sort of situation arose," he continued before nodding to the attendants, who began highlighting two roads on the map south of Sheffield and Liverpool.

"The M6 and M1 Highways," Sirius explained. "Two of the country's major road networks, and direct routes to London...or to the Northern Territories," he exposed. "Though their routes would take us directly into the heartland of the Chiefs of Staff, I must remind you that at the same time these are direct links between the south and three of our major cities—Manchester, Sheffield, and Liverpool."

"Should any of these fall, the effects on our territories would be devastating," Sirius added unnecessarily—everyone with an eye on the map knew this to be true, since all three cities provided logistical and coordination support for over half of the Northern Territories' agricultural and industrial output. "To the end of ensuring that we do _not_ lose these cities, thus, we have begun Operation Highground," he announced, and the attendants switched the color of their pointers to a yellow, which they settled on a point just above Notttinghamshire and Staffordshire—right where the M1 and M6 crossed the border. "In order to effectively slow down the enemy, sections of the M1 and M6 have been destroyed by our forces as far south as Sandbach and Silverhill, as well as any nearby roads and access points, and should the opportunity present itself, such operations will be continued in neighbouring Staffordshire and Nottinghamshire. As such, all troop movements along these two highways will be redirected towards Buxton," he continued, just as a dot on the map turned glowing yellow. "Buxton, gentlemen, will be the headquarters of our defensive operations in the south. There, we will funnel the enemy's troops and destroy them."

"What of naval contingencies, sir?" called out one of the military officials. "After all, Admiral Hughes controls most of the Royal Navy."

Sirius turned to his right and nodded at Curtis, who was in charge of the northernmost defenses. Standing up, the imposing woman glared at her audience grimly. "Amphibious assaults are expected as far north as Newcastle, Sunderland, and Scarborough on the eastern front, and Blackpool, Maryport, and Whitehaven on the west. These are the locations we have designated as expected targets due to their proximity with regional support centers and/or major cities. All standing forces in the north have begun deploying defenses along these spots, with observation posts established at other potential landing sites."

"What about bombardments?" pressed the officer. "What sort of contingency do we have against being bombed out of our defenses?"

Curtis increased the heat of her glare, but Sirius stopped her just as she was about to ream the officer out. "Military Mages will be deployed to enact a shield over the beaches where the assaults are expected to happen. When they realize it will take took long to bomb the defenses out, they will thus be forced into conducting amphibious assaults," Sirius replied for her smoothly.

"Hull, too, is expected to become a battlefield," Sirius continued as Curtis sat back down, arms crossed. "With the Humber Bridge being the obvious deployment route and thus, target, our engineers have rigged it to explode in the event that Scunthorpe and Grimsby fall to a flanking attack."

"Are we even planning on defending these locations, sir?" asked a young man in Major's uniform. It was a testament to how short-handed they were that the officers were beginning to be drawn from younger ages. "It seems to me that if we've already rigged the bridge then we're expecting Scunthorphe and Grimsby to fall."

Joshua fielded that question, leaning forward onto his desk. "Rigging the bridge is a countermeasure, Major," he stated smoothly. "We will not give a single inch of our land over to the Chiefs' tyranny without a fight."

Sirius and Harry both nodded in agreement, as did the rest of the Council. "Regardless, any potential landing sites near Hull have been fortified against amphibious attacks," Sirius assured the room.

"And Wales?" asked another, this one a civil official. "I'm noticing no defensive arrangements seem to be marked for Northern Wales."

"As General Speirs is still in actual control over Northern Wales as an occupation force, no further defensive arrangements were deemed necessary at this time," Harry stated calmly. "Furthermore, Southern Wales has rejected the Chiefs' authority and banned them from using their territory to strike at us. While they can invade Southern Wales, this would be a waste of resources and manpower they cannot afford. Thus, we predict they will simply bypass Wales."

"What sort of enemy are we expecting?" someone calmly asked. Upon further scrutiny, Harry saw that it had been Neville, present at the meeting to represent the Military Mages. "How many?"

There was a pause in the room as the Council members glanced at each other somewhat uncertainly. Only Harry kept his gaze fixed on Neville and answered calmly, without a trace of fear or doubt. "We approximate that the enemy is marching on us with close to two hundred thousand troops in total."

As Harry had expected, most of the room succumbed to their instinctual response of unadulterated fear at the boggling amount of enemy troops marching on them. Harry was, however, a little disappointed that the military officers, too, had for the most part fallen prey to their doubts, having believed them to at least be versed enough in military history to realize that numbers weren't everything. After letting them vocalize their dismay for a few minutes, Harry decided it was time to rectify this situation.

"Enough," he stated imperiously, subtly motioning with his hand as he allowed a burst of silencing magic quiet the themselves suddenly unable to speak, the assembled officials and officers looked at Harry with confused, irritated, and/or fearful expressions. With another wave of his obscured hand, the spell was lifted, but no one spoke out, having understood the point of the spell. "I understand where you all are coming from," he assured them. "In fact, it would be foolish of me to say that I feel no fear in the face of such an intimidating enemy. However, this is no reason to lose hope; no reason to abandon the fierce courage with which we transformed one of the country's worst hot spots of anarchy and chaos into a stable, self-sufficient nation," he chastised his audience.

"How many crises have we dealt with over the years? The food crisis, the power crisis, Manchester, Leeds, Sheffield, the bandits in the countryside, Newcastle and the Northern Regions, and Birmingham?" he reminded them. "How many of these did we solve? How many of these did we fail? I remind you now: All of them, none of them," he answered respectively.

"Yes, the enemy is many, and yes, they are not without ability," he confirmed. "For all their personal failures as human beings, the Chiefs of Staff have the talent to back up their positions, even if we despise them for their corrupt natures. Taylor, despite being paranoid, is a capable field commander, and Admiral Hughes, for all his sly double dealing, knows the ins and outs of naval warfare. Thompson, despite being corrupt and malicious in nature, understands the power of the air force well, and Morris, though with no battlefield achievement of note, has been cunning enough to hold the leash of the other three. These men are not to be underestimated or dismissed, but they are also not worth paralyzing oneself over, and I fully believe that when the time comes that we are to do battle with them, you will all stand proudly at your posts and deliver unto them a defeat so devastating that they will never recover from it," he stated firmly, without a shred of doubt audible in his voice.

To his credit, his impromptu speech managed to visibly straighten most of the military officers and many civilian officials, though there were still a few who looked reluctant to believe him, or simply doubted the veracity of his words. At that point, Warwick, being the consummate political aristocrat, took note of the situation and immediately rose to his feet to press Harry's advantage in morale raising.

"General White isn't wrong!" he declared. "How many times have we faced incredible—some might even say, impossible—odds and prevailed?" he demanded. "Who could have thought that the North would ever become greater than it had ever been before the war after the anarchy began? How many here remember when one could only speak of Manchester or Leeds as lost causes? Yet there they stand as beacons of civilization!" he argued.

He swept a hand towards Harry now, amusing the raven haired general. "Our leaders are not without talent either! We all remember Sagunto, where General White coordinated an impossible defense and smashed the Spanish forces such that the war was ended!" he was exaggerating, of course. While the defense had been successful, luck, more than strategy, had been the decisive factor in that siege. "And General Speirs, who conquered Northern Wales in less than a month, while the Chiefs could not even do as much! Who dares question his talent and devotion to the state?" he asked as he motioned towards the stony-faced general amidst the military officers. Numerous murmurs of agreement were resounding now. "And let's not forget General Curtis, who keeps dutiful watch over our northern border. Such was her talent before we came to the north that even the Chiefs of Staff could not ignore her and promoted her to her current rank!"

"Victory isn't about numbers," Warwick continued with a grim look. "Victory is about cunning, and strategy, and some of the finest strategic mind in our country's military are in this very room. Why are we then fretting about?" he asked rhetorically. "Yes, they have the numbers, but we have the skill. We have the experienced on our side. The greatest heroes of the Anglo-Spanish War are not with the Chiefs of Staff but with us, as are the country's newest, most powerful weapons: the military mages!" he reminded them as he motioned towards Neville and the rest of his small military mage delegation.

The murmurs grew into outright clapping as heads bobbed in agreement with the aristocrat's speech. Looking over the audience now, Harry could see that a few more of both the officers and officials who'd seemed unwilling to join in on the optimism had caved in and now had satisfied or happy smiles. These weren't precisely who worried him, but rather those who still looked sour. These were the naysayers, and as far as he was concerned, the traitors. They would have to be dispatched quickly, but for now he had to leave them be as he brought the meeting back to order.

"Thank you, Lord Warwick, for an excellent speech," Harry praised his friend before returning to his expression of grim expectation. "For now, however, I wish for us all to return to the strategic considerations still required for the upcoming crisis. To that end, those of you with military responsibilities are to meet with General Speirs and Curtis for detailed briefs and assignments in regards to the preparation of our defensive positions ahead of the invasion. The rest of you will be meeting with Lord Warwick and Minister Potter for in-depth analyses of the social and economic situation to better devise plans to deal with the state of siege we will undoubtedly be entering. Dismissed," he stated with finality.

Loudly, the assembled audience got to their feet and slowly proceeded to leave the room, all the while chatting amongst themselves and commenting on the assembly. Only once they had all left, leaving Harry with his guards—all of whom he trusted implicitly—did he sigh, just as a pop sounded to his rear left.

"Report," he stated without hesitation.

"Seven officers, double that in officials," Xeno replied grimly as he straightened up. "I've already got agents tailing the dissenters. Should we move to eradicate them now?" he asked.

Harry shook his head. "Keep tailing them. If we're lucky, they'll lead us straight to any other like minded individual within our administration and on the outside. When the time comes, I want all those rats exterminated, not just the conveniently public ones," he stated.

"Yes, sir," Xeno replied formally. After all, they weren't casually hanging out right now; Harry was, _de facto_, his leader and, if the campaign succeeded, his ruler. Better to get used to it now rather than later.

"I also want to initiate Operation Lion," Harry then said, prompting another head bob from Xeno. "Tell Widow to make it quick. Our forces will be entering the area in two weeks' time, just as the Chiefs move up from London."

"Two weeks?" asked Xeno, a little surprised. "That's quite fast for them," he observed.

Harry smiled to himself as he gazed at the sparse decoration in the room. "They have to be. They have much work to do and very little time to do it in," he pointed out. "The more time passes, the stronger our defensive position becomes, and they know it. Thus, they will attempt to blitz their way up north."

Xeno nodded, understanding Harry's analysis. "What about their numbers?" asked the Special Operations Chief. "It's obvious you have a plan, but even so, isn't it at least a _little_ worrisome to you how many soldiers they've got?"

Harry chuckled. "A little, perhaps," he admitted. "But consider this: how did they raise so many troops in so little time? The veterans of Spain would not so quickly jump right back into a war, much less against their own countrymen, and our recent census indicates that a good chunk of them came into our territories. So where are they from? I have only one answer for this incredible surge..." he left off, prompting Xeno to deduce the answer.

"Conscription," Xeno spoke with dawning realization. "You think their army is full of conscripts?" he asked for confirmation.

Harry smiled lazily. "Is there really any doubt?" he asked rhetorically. "Think on it. How long have we been established up here in the North? Two years almost? Less than that, in fact, if we count from the moment the Chiefs foolishly sent me up here in an official capacity," he pointed out. "In that time, our armed forces have remained pretty much static, with perhaps a few thousand recruits. This is due to our policy of encouraging civilian industry and agricultural initiatives," he pointed out. "But the Chiefs have no such worries, whereas they _are_ concerned about maintaining their power strong throughout their regions. The absolute control they exercise in turn demands a great quantity of soldiers at the ready, and we have yet to hear of a sustained propaganda campaign in the south. This leaves the option of conscription."

Xeno nodded slowly. "I see...then I imagine this is why you feel confident about our chances?" he asked, a little less concerned. Still, he had to make sure his leader knew what he was doing, since he was personally invested in the well-being of the Northern government. Beyond his own post, he had his daughter to worry about. While Luna had made great strides in recovering from her emotional trauma, there was still much to do before he was confident she had recuperated. Since she seemed to thrive in the Northern government as Sirius' aide, he was loathe to see that opportunity ripped away from her. "After all, if they're conscripts, doesn't that mean that they're liable to be badly trained?"

"Among other things," agreed Harry with a short nod. "Though I imagine the Chiefs each have a core group in their armed forces which work as their elite troops and enforcers. It wouldn't do to underestimate them, in any case," he analysed.

Harry then blinked as he remembered something. "Ah yes, before I forget," he said just as an attendant entered the room carrying a platter with tea drinking implements on it, "How has the hunt for insiders gone?" he asked.

Xeno nodded. "We've managed to identify a few suspects, though they all seem rather...obvious."

Harry nodded back. "I see. Capture them," he ordered. "And make it very big, very public."

It was Xeno's turn to blink now. "Sir?"

"Capturing them will make our enemies believe we've fallen for their trick," he explained as the attendant poured the tea into a waiting cup on Harry's table. "This will make them feel more secure about their security arrangements. However, we will increase our covert search for them, limiting the people in the know to you, Sirius, Joshua, and myself. No one else that isn't directly involved is to catch wind of the operation. Understood?" he asked.

Xeno nodded, his eyes turning to the attendant before them, who seemed calm despite the fact that they were talking about such secretive operations. "You won't be one of the seekers, Astoria," he told the young woman, who graced her commander and leader with a nod. "You'll continue your duties in keeping Harry safe, understood?"

"I do," she replied calmly as she continued her duties and then left the room without ever breaking pace.

Harry smiled at the exchange and crossed his arms over his chest. "The next few months will prove to be quite interesting, Xeno," he said with calm confidence. "Don't blink, or you'll miss it."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

**Nottingham, United Kingdom, May 27th, 2011...**

Josefina had a bad feeling about this mission.

She couldn't quite pinpoint _why_, but she also couldn't dodge the sinking feeling in her stomach as she leapt over the once-barbed wall that closed off the Councillor's estate from the rest of the world, having already brushed aside the jagged glass on top and disabled the sensors. Landing nimbly on her toes in a crouched position, she glanced every which way to make sure she hadn't been spotted or unwittingly missed motion sensors in the yard before quietly making her way to the front gates, where she knew about ten guards were stationed. It was imperative to her mission that they were eliminated, as her comrades in this mission, the very same Goblin Honour Squad she had assisted in the murder of Draco Malfoy, weren't tall or nimble enough to infiltrate any other way.

Swiftly making her way over towards the front gate, always ensuring to stay in the shadow of the various plant life the Councillor used to decorate his lawn, Josefina pondered on the reason for which she felt so reluctant about this mission in particular. It wasn't a reluctance to kill the man—she had gotten over that particular impulse a long time ago. Nor was it empathy. Rather, something about the mission itself struck her as odd...wrong, even.

When she finally got to the guardhouse, she understood her feeling a lot more.

The guardhouse was empty, and the Goblin Honour Squad was standing outside the gate, looking confused.

"What happened?" asked Josefina as she stepped into the light of the entryway.

The Goblin leader, Martuk, shrugged his small shoulders. "The human guards never showed up," he growled with a sneer.

Anyone else would've taken offense at the Goblin's tone and facial expression, but Josefina had interacted with the humanoids long enough to recognize the various facial and tonal idiosyncrasies of their race. In Martuk's case, both his tone and sneer conveyed quite a bit of worry, and with good reason; the Councillor was renowned as a paranoid man, so he would have never gotten rid of his guards.

Unless it was a trap, or he was dead.

The former seemed the more obvious choice, so Josefina immediately recognized why she had felt badly about the mission from the start. It was too easy.

Infiltrating the compound should have taken a lot more work, and getting from her infiltration spot to the entrance should have involved dodging guards and stepping carefully to avoid motion sensors. Yet, she had needed to do none of those. How did the old adage go? If a plan goes is going perfectly, it's a trap?

Josefina felt torn. On the one hand, everything about this mission stank to high heaven, but on the other hand, she had been entrusted with a critical mission to sow chaos in the Nottinghamshire Council. Eliminating the Councillor, who also doubled up as the weapons provider for the local militia, would do the trick.

Wanting to scream out in frustration at the choices before her, she nonetheless ruthlessly pushed down her anger and opened the electronically operated gate, giving the Goblins free passage.

"We are still proceeding?" asked Martuk, even as his Goblins raised their rather medieval weapons in a sign of readiness. Despite how ancient and obsolete the weapons seemed to be, Josefina was well aware that taking them at face value was utterly stupid. Sure, the Ministry had taken away their right to bear wands, but who said they hadn't found a way around that?

Josefina nodded. "If it's a trap, it's a painfully obvious one," she told her colleague. "And if we know it's there, we know to be on our guard."

Martuk eyed Josefina for a moment before nodding with a vicious grin. "Good," he said, pleased. "All this sneaking around was making me sick anyway." Cunning as they were in banking practices, Goblins were oddly honorable when it came to actual fighting. From what Josefina had gathered, Goblins believed that if you wanted someone dead, you had to give him the courtesy of defending himself. It was why one never heard of anything like a Goblin-on-Goblin genocide, or the murder of innocents.

Nodding to Martuk as he passed her by with his Squad, Josefina made sure to close the gate before following them along the tree line that flanked the gravel road leading to the mansion proper, making sure she kept within the shadows. Once they got near enough, Josefina gave Martuk the prearranged signal and broke off from the tree line, going deeper into the yard and towards the right-side wing of the mansion, while the Goblins charged the front. The idea was for them to distract the occupants with a frontal assault, while she carried out the actual assassination covertly.

On cue, just as she reached the end of the mansion's right wing, she heard the Goblins give a fierce war cry and then an explosion, informing her they had successfully broken through the main entrance. Looking up the wall of the house, she quickly identified the window that led to the master bedroom and began scaling up.

When she reached the lit window, she stopped just short of it and, with one hand, slowly drew a long, thin knife from its scabbard at her back and, ever so carefully, peeked her head up to look into the room.

There he Councillor seemed to have been caught with his pants, down, literally, when the attack began, lying as he was atop someone—probably his lover _du jour_—in his bed. The unconcerned look on his face, however, worried Josefina, as did the fact that she couldn't make out any guards in the room. Was the ambush really that great? Was he really this well prepared? Had the plan been leaked? Worse yet, had she been made and not known it? Gritting her teeth in rising frustration, she slowly lifted her knife wielding hand and tried to delicately push open the window which, as expected, failed to do so, being locked. Clicking her tongue instinctively in annoyance, she reached into the fanny pack and pulled out something the Goblins said would do the trick—a small, insect like device that latched onto the window frame when she placed it there and burrowed into it, slowly making its way towards the lock and then eating right through it.

It never ceased to amaze her how inventive the magical race was. Especially given their long term isolation from the technological developments of the her world.

Gently pressing her hand again against the window, she carefully pushed it open, feeling a little queasy when she began to clearly hear the Councillor's lovemaking grunts. Slowly, she pulled herself up onto the windowsill and quietly put her feet on the floor, making sure her blade didn't clink against anything. Thankfully, the man seemed to busy to notice her presence, or the sudden breeze of fresh air her entrance had allowed in.

Bringing up her blade, she carefully made her way towards the Councillor, now able to hear the sound of fighting coming from within the mansion. Judging by it, she confirmed her suspicions that this had been a trap, though it seemed no one had expected a second assassin to infiltrate by another way.

She stopped just behind the Councillor, wrinkling her nose at the man's rather...large backside as it thrust about. It didn't escape her notice, however, that the man's partner had very feminine legs, although it wouldn't be the first time some effeminate man had taken great pains to feminize themselves.

Shrugging to herself, she brought up her blade, pointing the tip right above the place where the shoulders and neck intersected. Then, with a smirk, she said, "General White sends his regards."

The thrusting stopped. The Councillor started turning his head, but before he could, Josefina struck down with her weapon.

The blade smoothly pierced the man's skin, impaling the Councillor and piercing right through his guest. An unfortunate casualty, but necessary in order to prevent whoever it was from blowing her presence. She watched as the Councillor's naked form stiffened under the pain, and he seemed frozen in mid-shout of pain before slumping down, the bedsheets quickly turning red as blood pooled from his wounds and that of his guest. Not taking any chances, she twisted the blade in the wound, causing some blood to spurt out as she nicked an artery, and then pulled the blade out.

She wiped the blade clean of the man's blood and sheathed it then, focusing on her task of ascertaining that she had killed off the right man. To that end, she grunted in exertion as she attempted to push the Councillor onto his side, becoming rather impressed by the man's weight.

Eventually, however, she managed to do so, and though she did recognize him as the man she'd been ordered to kill, what she found under him belied his identity.

A woman.

The Councillor had been having sex with a woman.

Josefina blinked at this revelation, her eyes instinctively going for the naked woman's nether parts to confirm this wasn't an elaborately made up transvestite or transgendered person. Nope. All woman. She frowned. That made no sense. Her reports had all indicated that the Councillor was very openly and very clearly quite gay. If that was so, then the man she had just killed wasn't the Councillor, but a really convincing impostor.

She narrowed her eyes at the portly man, considering the possible explanations for this seeming breach in her information. Could he have been a very well hidden bisexual? It seemed unlikely, as there really was no significant stigma against that—so why hide it? Political reasons? Trying to appeal to the gay community? Again, unlikely, as he didn't seem the sort of man who was ashamed of who he was.

She stepped over to the Councillor's side of the bloodied bed and leaned over the corpse, making use of her gloved hands to check his face for any sort of scars or markings to indicate plastic surgery. She had heard that Harry and Sirius had employed that stratagem with their body doubles before, and it wasn't inconceivable to think that someone else might independently think up such a glowered at the corpse as she found none, already feeling quite sickened by the man's naked appearance. Still, she had to resolve this mystery as soon as possible, and there was one option left to her that she hadn't yet explored.

Magic.

If this was the product of the Polyjuice potion, which had stretched the limits of her credulity when Xeno had briefed all the new agents of the Intelligence Service, then death would've sealed the transformation in place permanently, though there were still ways to determine whether it had been used or not.

Pulling out a small vial of green liquid, courtesy of the Goblins, she popped the cap and poured a single drop on the man's forehead, ignoring the permanently frozen shocked look on his face. The moment the drop splashed on the faux-Councillor's head, it instantly got absorbed by his skin, which soon began emitting a blue glow. Josefina cursed.

Positive.

The fucking Councillor had slipped through her fingers! She had killed some half-assed decoy! Even worse, she now had proof positive that he was involved with mages, and if her previous investigation into the weapons dealer said anything about it, then his mage contacts were Death Eaters.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Irritable as she was, the moment a couple of haggard-looking guards burst in shouting for the Councillor to flee she quickly dispatched both of them with throwing knives to the throat, ignoring the thumping sound of their bodies as they hit the floor gagging on their own blood. Moments later, the first of the Goblin Honour Squad marched in, bloodied axe high as he looked for prey. Noticing the two dead guards and a pissed off looking Josefina standing by two more corpses, the warrior quickly left and soon brought back Martuk, who besides a few dents in his armor and a nasty looking wound in his left arm, seemed none the worse for wear.

Martuk took one glance at the bodies and then at Josefina before sneering. "I take it the fat human escaped?" he asked.

Josefina nodded, motioning towards the bodies. "Polyjuice," she replied succinctly. "He could be anywhere."

Martuk shook his head, surprising her. "No, they would need the fat human around to collect samples for the potion," he corrected her before eyeing the female corpse on the bed. "Was it necessary to kill the female?" he asked.

"No witnesses, remember?"

Martuk nodded silently, glad at least that he hadn't been asked to perform such a dastardly deed. He had no problems killing warriors, but defenseless females and children was another matter entirely. Not a problem his colleague seemed to have, though.

Growling to the other Goblin warrior in the room in their native language, Martuk watched as the diminutive warrior ran out of the room, howling instructions to the other warriors still scouring the mansion. "If he's here, we'll find him," he growled.

Josefina nodded, stepping away from her handiwork. "We can't fail this one, Martuk—the army will be marching on this place in a week, and they expect little to no resistance once the Councillor is dead," she reminded him.

Martuk was about to reply when a howl was heard from within the mansion. His features split into a vicious grin. "They found him," he informed her, and soon the pair were racing towards the source of the sound, though what they found there they did not expect.

A storeroom, of sorts, locked away in a compartment hidden in the Councillor's study. Jar after jar of what seemed to be hair, nails, and other assorted materials lined the short shelves, and when her eyes fell on the organs and eyes, Josefina felt like throwing up. To her credit, she managed to keep her stomach still, though this finding answered a lot, particularly after she picked out one jar of hair and read the label.

"Henry Sizemore's hair," she read, her mouth drawing into a thin, tight lipped line. "That explains it."

Martuk nodded. "The fat human is dead," he summed up succinctly. "We have been tailing an impostor for quite some time."

"Explains why they killed the dealer when he tried to cheat them out of money," she opined as she put the jar back. "These are very well preserved," she noted.

"They have to be fresh in order for the potion to work," Martuk explained as he eyed what seemed to be cross-sections of the Councillor's heart. "It is unusual for mages to harvest anything other than hair or nails, however," he said with some concern. "Most of your kind cannot abide the taste of human tissue."

Josefina made a face at the topic of discussion, but nodded nonetheless. "Right," she agreed. "Either way, we're done here. Pack up what you can, destroy the rest. Xeno's going to be _very_ interested in what we found."

Martuk harrumphed. "The strange human is interested by anything," he grumbled, remembering a distinct episode when Xeno had all but assaulted him with questions, back when he and his Squad had been...negotiated for by Harry Potter. Nonetheless, the comment served to bring an amused smile to Josefina's face.

"He meant well," she assured him with an amused smile.

The Goblin grunted. "That doesn't meant I have to like being assaulted."

Josefina laughed.

* * *

**Buxton, Northern Territories, May 28th, 2011...**

"Dead?"

Xeno nodded from where he knelt on his cushion, facing the amalgamated brass of the Northern Territories. "Agent Nightshade and Martuk's report on the incident was quite clear. Councillor Sizemore has been dead for more than a month," he confirmed. "Given the timeline this establishes, I believe this means that the Councillor who has been influencing the Nottingham Council against us has been a foreign agent from the very beginning," he analysed.

"Death Eaters?" asked Curtis with a growl and a frown. No one had forgotten the thousands who had died due to the massive terrorist attacks launched on the United Kingdom. Even less forgave the people who had, basically, started this whole mess.

"It seems likely," Xeno agreed cautiously. "It doesn't fit in with Order tactics or their philosophy, and the harvesting of materials outside the regular hair strands and nails seems to imply a taste for human flesh...and I can only think of one magical species with that particular affinity."

"Werewolves," Harry supplied from behind the map table, leaning forward above it and keeping his attention split between Xeno's report and the map beneath his eyes. "Which, coincidentally, happen to be the Death Eater's most versatile allies. Except for Remus, of course," he then added.

Xeno nodded. "Indeed. In any case, I believe it would be wise to send Nightshade and Martuk north beyond the wall to investigate the link," he opined. "Agent Nightshade has particularly demonstrated her ability to handle herself in the field."

The room was silent for a moment, all eyes on Harry. To their surprise, however, Harry shook his head at Xeno's proposal. "I need her elsewhere," Harry stated with finality. "Send Wolfsbane once he's done in France."

Xeno seemed willing to argue, but nodded reluctantly. "As you wish. Might I ask where I shall send Nightshade, then?" he asked.

Harry pulled out a piece of folded paper from his uniform pocket and flicked it at Xeno, who deftly caught it mid-air. Silently, the older mage unfolded the paper and read its contents, his blonde eyebrows rising dramatically in surprise. Surprise that he quickly got under control and masked with professional calm and a nod. "I see," he said noncommittally. "Very well. I will dispatch the teams immediately," he added in self-dismissal, which neither Harry nor anyone else contested.

Once the blonde mage had left, Speirs turned to face Harry with his arms crossed. "Well, that was mysterious," he snarked. "Mind filling us in?"

"I do for this one, Speirs," Harry told the man with a shake of his head. "The less people who know about it, the better. In any case, we have work to do. Curtis?" he prompted.

The only female general in the military trinity of the Northern Territories nodded gravely as she placed a finger on a location near Newcastle. "I've established a center of operations here, at Haltwhistle," she informed her colleagues. "It has a hospital and rail station, and commands the line between Newcastle and Carlisle. Along the beaches, we've established first-warning systems and enlisted local fishermen to inform us of any incoming attacks, after which it becomes a matter of ferrying the troops to their assigned defenses."

She looked up at her two colleagues. "I don't have to remind you two that we're all working with a pittance of a defense force," she deadpanned. "I don't have nearly the amount of men I would like to defend so much coastline."

"Get in line," grunted Speirs. " I've barely got enough to hold down Northern Wales, especially after we funneled some of our manpower to your positions."

"Yet we have more than the enemy thinks we do," Harry pointed out. "Our disinformation campaign has successfully magnified the scope of our casualties at Birmingham, so they're expecting a stroll through our defensive arrangements."

Speirs and Curtis nodded reluctantly at that, and it seemed neither were very convinced of how much resistance their force could provide against overwhelming numbers. Particularly against numbers with air and sea support that far outstripped their own.

Speaking of which...

"How are preparations going for the expected air assault from the south?" asked Speirs.

Harry smirked at the question. "Civilian crews have been trained for anti-air battery duty," he informed the duo. "And we've got emplacements littering the countryside from here to Liverpool and Leeds. Any plane stupid enough to try deploying troops over our cities will get torn to shreds."

"Missile batteries too?" pressed Curtis. After all, while World War II era planes had been within reach of FLAK guns, modern planes had long since broken that particular sky ceiling barrier.

Harry nodded. "We're well defended against air assaults, although we'll be depending on our own air force to establish air superiority over our territory," he confirmed. It wasn't very reassuring, to be honest, as the Northern Territories' air force was even more of a fraction of that of the Chiefs of Staff. All they could hope, really, was that their pilots would prove to be more competent.

Now, however, it was Harry's turn to question his colleagues. "And our sea defenses?" he asked.

Curtis grimaced. "Besides the early warning systems and enlisted fishermen?" she asked rhetorically. "We've set up shore batteries at strategic locations, manned around the clock. However, our sea power is minuscule, so we'll have to hope that they don't try for sustained bombardments."

Speirs shook his head. "They want the country as intact as possible, same as us," he opined. "And they _know_ the Northern Territories are far more developed than their own lands. Destroying whatever progress we've made would severely hinder their post-war recuperation capacity," he analysed. "I don't think they'll make that move."

Harry nodded. "I agree."

Speirs eyed the map again. "How's the plan proceeding?" he asked Harry. While they all knew the details of the strategy in place to defend the Northern Territories, each of the military triumvirate had their own front to deal with. Thus, why they had agreed to meet at Harry's command post to discuss their progress.

Harry smiled. "Good, so far. As we expected, Sizemore's death caused a panic in Nottinghamshire, allowing our forces to march relatively undisturbed on the capital. As of..." he snapped his fingers and an aide rushed forward with the appropriate document in hand. Reading it, Harry nodded. "...eight this morning, we have seized control of the city and have instituted martial law. Defenses ought to be ready before the vanguard of the Chief's forces arrive."

"And Stoke?" asked Curtis.

"Fell relatively easily," Harry replied with a proud smile. "Speaks well of the commander of that detachment; bright young lad...Swift, I think his name was," he recalled. Neither Speirs nor Curtis were fooled by that. Harry didn't pick his commanders at a whim. If this Swift had been put in charge of that offensive, it was because Harry knew everything about him and had been duly impressed.

"Who's in charge of the Nottingham detachment?" asked Curtis, curious. After all, if this Swift fellow and his colleague managed to hold the strategic choke points as according to plan, then their careers would merit close monitoring.

"One Alexander von Humboldt," Harry recalled, making Speirs raise his eyebrows in surprise. Harry nodded at him. "Yes, your candidate," he confirmed. It was a standing agreement between Curtis, Speirs, and Harry that if any of them found a promising officer candidate, they would recommend the person in question for consideration in the assignment of high-value missions. Humboldt, as it was, had been Speirs' recommendation.

"Will they be able to hold their positions?" asked Curtis, knowing neither of the two men.

Speirs nodded firmly. "Humboldt is a good soldier, and steadfast. He'll stand his ground," he vouched.

Harry smiled. "Swift is pretty good, too," he weighed in. "He's a traditionalist. He keeps to his orders and sticks to them like glue. A good aspect for a defensive commander."

Curtis shrugged, taking them at their word. Either way, it was far too late to change assignments at this point. Instead, she focused on another front on the map that had her worried. "What of the Hull front?" she asked.

"Allow me," interjected a voice just as Harry began to reply. Looking behind him, Harry smiled and nodded, stepping aside so that Albert Hughes could stand beside him.

"Hughes," greeted Curtis, while Speirs nodded in kind.

"Generals Curtis, Speirs," greeted Hughes. "As I was saying, I will be taking over operations in Hull," Hughes informed them. It is a critical point in our defenses, and not to be assigned to just anyone," he stated firmly before turning to Harry. "I've just come from Liverpool. Your uncle wants you to know they've finished their preparations."

"The anti-bombardment shields?" asked Curtis curiously.

Hughes nodded. "Indeed. Over twenty squads of military mages have begun taking their positions for when the shields are to go up. At that time, radio communications will be severed due to magical interference. Only wire communications will be up," he informed them. "He also reports such readiness at the other major centres. All in all, it should minimize the damage to the cities and effectively keep the enemy from sending in paratroopers from the air, or shelling the cities from the sea."

"Won't protect the rest of the Territories, though," Speirs pointed out.

Hughes snorted. "From what I understand, no magical shield could do that. Keeping such a shield up for even a second would probably kill off all our military mages. Thankfully, Miss Eisenheim has managed to theorize a way to share the burden for _these_ shields, so we won't be rolling in dead mages to the graveyard mid battle."

Speirs, Curtis, and Harry nodded, once again glad they had the scientist on their side; Harry more so, of course. Speirs was about to comment on that, in fact, when a soldier ran into the command centre, looking harried and, frankly, quite bewildered.

"Sirs!" he cried out. "We've got a problem!"

Immediately, Curtis' hand shot out in a halting fashion towards the guardsman, her glare fierce and disapproving. "Calm yourself, soldier!" she barked. "What do you think this is, a nursery? Where's your discipline?"

So chastised, the soldier cringed at her tone and quickly went to attention, smartly returning to the professional countenance the Northern Territories all but beat into their soldiers. "Sirs!" he greeted them with a crisp salute. "As I was reporting, sirs, a situation has come up at the Buxton limits!" he reported.

Speirs crossed his arms, a little disapproving of Curtis' handling of the soldier but thankful at least that the man had stopped being hysterical. "What sort of situation?" he demanded promptly.

"Mages, sir," the guardsman answered dutifully.

The triumvirate plus Hughes exchanged looks now. No military mage would've caused this sort of commotion. No mage would have been able to cross the Babylon Wall, either—at least, not by way of magic. That meant the mage had been crossed over by the garrison there and escorted all the way to Buxton.

Harry was intrigued. Whoever this mage was, they were willing to undergo the many, _many _security measures the Northern Territories had implemented to regulate traffic in and out of the Babylon Wall. Then, they would have been under heavy, armed guard all the way to Buxton, undoubtedly shackled by the very same device they had used to deprive him of his magic.

Considering they were now here and in sufficient shape to even talk—or else he'd have received the report at his office, along with a note attached explaining why the mage had been interned at a hospital under heavy armed guard—that spoke quite amply of the mage's forbearance.

He couldn't deny it—he was damned curious, and judging from the look in his colleague's eyes, so were they, having reached the same conclusion.

"Bring them to the conference room," he ordered. Curious as he was, there was no way he was letting them see the inside of his operations centre. Not while he still held doubts regarding their complicity in the Nottinghamshire affair.

The soldier saluted crisply. "Yes, sir!" he barked before marching out to carry out his orders.

Left to themselves, the highest ranked members of the Northern military exchanged glances at this surprising development. All of them understood that there was no way that the mage in question was a Death Eater—such a person would've been shot on sight. That meant either refugees from the civil war in Scotland, or a member of the Order of the Phoenix.

"This is...surprising," Speirs remarked in a massive understatement.

Curtis snorted. "You think?" she snarked. "A bloody unregistered mage walks up to our door and asks to talk...what on earth are they thinking?" she asked rhetorically, nonetheless eyeing Harry for answers.

Harry, however, was at as much a loss as she was, and was silently conferring with Hughes, who, while just as surprised, nonetheless had a theory.

"Something must've gone wrong up north," Hughes opined as Harry prompted him to speak aloud. "So far, everyone, both mage and normal, have been happy about leaving the other's civil war alone. If it is a member of the Order, then they need something from us."

"If it isn't?" asked Speirs.

"Then we're likely dealing with refugees," Harry interjected. "In which case, we're in deep trouble," he remarked ominously. "We don't have the manpower to babysit refugees, run the loyalty tests, and process their immigration _and_ at the same time fight off the Chiefs of Staff."

Hughes nodded. "He's right. In the event we're dealing with refugees, the most we could do for them is keep them on the far side of the Babylon Wall until such a time when we can deal with them," he opined.

"What about having them prove their loyalty by fighting in this war?" asked Curtis, not willing to so easily dismiss the idea of badly needed reinforcements. "We need more bodies, damnit, and if they're willing to live here, they've got to be willing to fight!"

"But could we trust them?" asked Speirs, seeing the rationale behind Hughes and Harry's opposition. "The Military Mages under Wenshi are trusted because they're combat veterans and deeply ingrained with our command structure. We have no such guarantees with anyone who comes from beyond the Babylon Wall," he pointed out. "Not to mention, they've had no training in warfare, so their impact would be minimal."

"From where I'm standing, one more man or woman holding a rifle is better than the ridiculous gaps we have in our defenses!" Curtis snapped. "Admit it, Speirs, you want reinforcements as much as anyone, and even White here can't deny he's short on manpower!"

Harry frowned at his female colleague. "I don't deny it," he agreed. "But I'd rather work with people I can trust than refugees. There's no telling if they're even genuine," he then added before Curtis could finish looking pleased with herself. "Besides, we're getting ahead of ourselves. Let's see who this mage is first, and what they want."

Finally finding a point they all agreed on, the four officers nodded in unison at the proposal, and were soon on their way to the conference room.

The conference room, in turn, was much like the Liverpool City Council Chamber, following its remodelling. Laid bare but for a raised dais for Harry to sit, it held a feeling of massiveness that seemed incompatible with its true, moderate size. But then, that was the point. By giving it that feeling, the guests would all feel minuscule compared to the owner of the room, making them that much more suggestible.

Curtis and Speirs, not being _de facto_ on the same level of power as Harry, took places flanking him at the foot of the dais, while Hughes stood to his side atop the dais in his position as advisor. Together, they had filed into the room from a concealed side entrance, and so when the mage was escorted in by a full squad of soldiers (all of them aiming their weapons in the mage's general direction), they had already been waiting for fifteen minutes.

Harry, who had been drinking some tea while he waited (courtesy of Astoria, who made simply the best tea he'd ever tasted), immediately recognized the mage. How could he not? She had dueled him and then escorted him in the failed attempt at getting him convicted of a slew of crimes.

Ginny Weasley.

How _remarkably_ interesting.

Not showing an inch of surprise, the four military officers waited until the squad escorting Ginny all but forced her on her knees a good twenty five paces from the dais, with none of the senior officers saying a single word of protest at her treatment. The witch, however, didn't seem all that bothered by the rough treatment, simply making a show of winking at the soldiers and then rubbing her sore shoulder.

The guards, however, didn't leave. Remaining exactly where they stood, flanking the witch, they waited patiently for the meeting to begin, or for one of the generals to dismiss them. Everyone knew none of them would do any such thing.

Seconds passed without anyone saying anything. Ginny, for her part, seemed rather bored with the proceedings, which intrigued Harry. The last he'd seen of her, she'd had a rather...imposing personality, to be harsh. Perhaps a more appropriate term would've been to say she had a rather strong personality. Either way, this stoic silence of hers was rather uncharacteristic of the firebrand who'd worked so hard to capture him.

"You wished to see us?" Curtis finally snapped, having lost her patience. Behind her, Hughes sighed inaudibly at the woman's temper.

Ginny, however, was unfazed, still retaining her smile. "That's right," she confirmed, before pointing at Harry. "Or, rather, I wanted to meet with _him_," she corrected herself.

Hughes stepped in now. "May we ask why?" he asked politely. "General White is not one whose schedule is so easily slipped into."

Ginny didn't buy it, however. "If that was so, why's he here?" she asked archly. "Or any of you, for that matter? Unless I've heard wrong, aren't you all in the middle of a civil war?" she reminded them.

"Aren't you?" asked Speirs right back. "Isn't that why you're here?"

Ginny smiled at the question. "Yes," she confirmed. "It is."

"Then?" asked Curtis. "Spit it out, girl! What does your boss want?"

Ginny laughed softly, a hand up in front of her mouth in a lofty gesture of mock politeness. "Oh, I'm not here for Dumbledore; I'm here for me," she stated. "Or rather, the people I represent."

"Who are not under Dumbledore's influence, I take it?" asked Hughes knowingly.

"Correct," Ginny confirmed. "Whatever the outside world likes to think, the Order's not some monolithic entity that totally dominates one side of the civil war with complete unity. We have factions too," she informed them. "And one of them is getting tired with the pacifist ways of Dumbledore."

"At the risk of sounding rude, so what?" posed Speirs. "You have broken off from British society as a whole; why should we care?"

Ginny smiled at the older man. "Because we want to deal," she answered smoothly. "We're not isolationists like Dumbledore, and we're not crazy like the Death Eaters. We also know we're losing the civil war up north, and that your enemies will sooner see us dead than help us," she analysed. "So naturally, wouldn't it be logical to deal with the only moderate faction?"

Curtis and Speirs exchanged glances while Hughes bowed down to confer with Harry softly. When he straightened up, Hughes looked stoically neutral. "Let's say we believe you," he said. "What do we have to gain from any partnership whatsoever?"

"A safe northern boundary," she replied easily. "Wouldn't that be a treat? Not having to worry if the big bad mages are going to invade any day now?" she taunted. One of the guards assigned to her twitched at her tone, but the raised hand of Curtis halted him from going any further than that.

"We could just as easily exterminate you all," Curtis pointed out dangerously. "We wouldn't have to worry about invasion then either, _and_ we'd recapture Scotland."

"At the cost of thousands of men, sure," Ginny agreed with a shrug. "We're not the Ministry, General Curtis," she stated, demonstrating that she knew very well who her audience consisted of. "Or Dumbledore's faction. The people I represent are not above using the extreme poles of violence to protect their homes and way of life."

"Either way, your offer is most unsatisfactory," Hughes interjected, hoping to stem a potential argument between the two women. "We would need something more...concrete," he stated smoothly.

"Such as?" Ginny asked, honestly curious.

Hughes eyed the red haired woman before him, scarcely believing she was but a few years younger than he, when she looked no older than twenty. Eyeing Harry, he noted—not for the first time—how unfair it was that mages had such vitality. "That would depend. What is it you wish to request from us?" he asked.

Ginny smirked. "Clever," she praised. "Very well. We want your help," she announced bluntly. "Specifically, we need your help in defeating the Death Eaters," she elaborated. "We don't have the manpower to go up against their legions of followers and Dark Creatures, but you do—and you have technology to help you fight large numbers."

"Absolutely not!" roared Curtis as she shot to her feet. "What on _earth_ makes you think we'd ever share our technology with you?" she demanded. "How could _anything_ you give us possibly even _measure_ to the risk we'd be taking?"

This time, Hughes made no move to stop her, nor did Speirs or Harry. Curtis had a point, after all. Mages were already incredibly dangerous due to their affinity for magic there was simply no reasonable explanation for why they would add to that danger by freely giving them technology they could later use against them.

"You ask for much, Miss Weasley," Harry said, finally speaking up. "Yet you offer nothing of solid value. You profess you would be peaceful neighbours, but we both know that's a pipe dream. Even if you kept to that oath until the day you died, your successors would not, and they would have no reason to follow your footsteps."

Ginny smiled at the _de facto_ ruler of the Northern Territories. He hid behind the thin veil of a Council of Peers, but everyone with any brains knew the real power lay exclusively with him.

"Very well then, no technology," she agreed—a little too easily, in Harry's opinion. If she had truly wanted Muggle technology, she would've fought a lot harder for it. That meant this had been but a negotiating point—something you had on the table with no real expectation of success, but rather to later throw away as a gesture of good will. "But we do require your assistance in dealing with the Death Eaters."

So, that was her agenda after all. "As you mentioned before, we are in the midst of our own civil war. Why would we send critical troops up north to fight another?" asked Harry calmly.

"Not front line troops," Ginny countered. "Rather, how about the garrison forces of that remarkable wall you've built?" she all but purred.

Curtis reddened again, about to explode from outrage, but was stalled by an invisible pressure on her shoulder that kept her sitting. Looking over her shoulder, she locked eyes with Harry, who's expression, for a split second, was threatening and powerful. Even Curtis knew better than to tempt that look, and stayed sullenly quiet, once again demonstrating that Harry was the true power in the room.

Harry returned his gaze to Ginny then, who seemed oblivious to the exchange. "Those troops keep the border safe. Why would I consent to sending them north?" he asked calmly.

Ginny smiled. "They keep the border safe from Death Eaters, not Order mages," she corrected. "If they were to go north and help us, it would quicken the elimination of the Death Eaters, thereby rendering their duties much less critical," she pointed out. "You could then focus the surplus of manpower there to more critical fronts."

"...She has a point," Speirs reluctantly agreed. "Keeping them there will just be a waste on resources we could use against the Chiefs," he elaborated as he looked back at Harry. "Send them north, at the expense of the mages, and we could defeat two foes in one war."

Harry nodded, not in agreement, but rather in acknowledgement of Speirs' analysis. "Curtis?" he prompted the female general.

Curtis grunted, having brought herself back under control. "I hate to say it, but the witch is right," she agreed. "Those troops are just sitting there as it is, and we can't use them in any of the fronts right now because of the Death Eaters. If they were used to bring the fight back to those robed bastards, however, that'd be a far more proactive use of their skills."

Harry nodded again. "Hughes?"

"The generals are correct," he concurred. "Of course, we would have to designate our own commander for the expedition, and have military mages incorporated into the unit to prevent foreign tampering."

Harry nodded. He was sure Neville could find a few trainees ready for field experience to send off with the unit—trainees that, while aptly trained, couldn't be risked placed in any of the sensitive battlefields.

Ginny smiled, feeling some relief that the meeting was going so well. She'd half expected to have been shot on sight, given her prior history with the Northern leader. "What would you need in return?" she asked, knowing no amount of cooperation would go without some price.

"Names," Harry spoke up then, his one word capturing everyone's attention. "I want the names of every last spy you and the Death Eaters have in the Northern Territories," he stated with finality. "This is non-negotiable."

Ginny's expression went stony at the demand. "And what makes you think I have any such names?" she asked smoothly.

Harry glared at the redhead, the impatience and annoyance in his expression easily transmitting his response to Ginny's question silently.

Ginny, however, wasn't so willing to leave her people out to dry. Death Eaters? No problem. However, she'd made a name for herself by looking out for the best interests of her people, and she wasn't about to risk that on a rickety treaty. "If I say names, you'll have them killed," she noted.

Speirs frowned at her. "That is the penalty for espionage," he reminded her.

"It is also a neat way at breaking any alliance our two factions might have before it even begins," Ginny riposted. "You cannot ask me to sentence anyone who may or may not be here on someone in my faction's orders to death."

Harry gazed at the redhead, feeling his respect for her rise a notch as she fiercely guarded the names of her operatives. Xeno, too, would have demonstrated such passionate defence; could he thus really begrudge her own desire to protect her comrades?

Fortunately, Harry had a way around that dilemma, so it never really affected his judgment. "Your people, if there are any, will not be harmed," he promised her. "They will take Unbreakable Vows to never divulge any information they gathered here, and then be sent on their way. The Death Eater spies, however, will be executed."

Ginny had no reason to argue with that, and so nodded. "If those are the terms, then I would agree," she stated formally. "Though, if I may ask, what will my testimony buy my faction?"

Harry's gaze remained steady and unmoveable. "Two thousand soldiers," he told her. "Elites, accompanied with assorted support staff and Military Mages."

Ginny's expression turned disappointed, though she noted that Curtis and Speirs seemed uneasy about the numbers, too. Unfortunately for her, it wasn't for the reason she assumed. "Only that much?" she asked, frowning.

"Don't mistake our elite troops for one of your mages, witch," Curtis snapped. "These men were handpicked to fight your kind. If anything, it's more than I'm comfortable with sending," she groused, glancing back over her shoulder.

Harry remained stoic, however. "Any less and they become a pittance," he countered calmly. "Any more and they are a drain. Two thousand ought to do the trick."

Ginny was amazed how compliant the two generals were at Harry's words. She had correctly judged Speirs and Curtis to have strong personalities, but Potter had managed to settle them with just a look and a few words. She felt a small smile form on her face. Yes, she had picked her allies well.

She nodded at Harry's explanation then. "If they are worthy of such praise, then they must be very excellent soldiers," she opined. "In that case, I agree to the terms you have outlined."

Speirs frowned at her. "Shouldn't you discuss this with your faction first?" he asked. "I can't see Dumbledore, for one, agreeing to the entry of two thousand elite troops not under his command."

Ginny smirked. "As you have your hierarchy, so do we. The higher ups of my faction will listen to me," she vouched. "And as for Dumbledore, you leave him to us. He won't be a problem."

Harry, Speirs, and Curtis nodded at her pronouncement, and the raven haired commander then turned his attention to Hughes. "See to it that the agreement is put on paper," he ordered the advisor. "And get one of our allies to make it magically binding," he added, sparing the redhead a glance. "Just in case."

Ginny gave an easy smile at the implied distrust, while Hughes bowed his head in acquiescence. "It will be done," he promised.

Giving a pleased nod, Harry then made a waving motion towards Ginny and her escorts. "Then as soon as we receive the names of the infiltrators in our government, we will send the troops. This meeting is over. Dismissed."

* * *

**Buxton, Northern Territories, June 6th, 2011...**

Not everyone was pleased with the idea of cooperating with the Order, of course. Sirius and William, in particular, had been vocal in their disagreement, finding it far too risky a gamble, with very little profit in view. Certainly, the collapse of the Death Eaters would be beneficial towards their aims, but Sirius had insisted that the Order wouldn't just stand by and watch as the Northern Territories absorbed the Death Eater lands.

James, too, opposed cooperation, but due to more personal reasons. He had not forgotten the years he had been forced to move his family from place to place to avoid Dumbledore's search squads, or the emotional hardships it had wrought on his wife and children. He, too, had warned Harry against trusting the Order, though he'd agreed that any plan to destroy the Death Eaters was a good one. Lily, a little more forgiving than her husband, had shared his misgivings, but had also supported Harry's deal with Ginny.

The only member of the Council who had said nothing on the matter, strangely, had been the Baron Warwick. Despite the fact that it essentially classified as an international deal, considering neither the Order nor the Territories considered themselves part of the same nation, Joshua had not been even so much as consulted for the affair, which had led some to think the new Minister of the Foreign Office would protest at his exclusion.

Instead, the aristocrat had kept silent, merely carrying on his duties and conferring unto Harry post-deal advice on how best to take advantage of the situation. His advice had thankfully coincided with Harry's own thoughts on the matter; that is to say, cooperate in the destruction of the enemy, then annex their lands with the help of overwhelming force once the campaign against the Chiefs was over.

Harry, however, was no fool, and never once imagined that the Baron's silence on the matter meant he wasn't hurting. Rather, the calm, cool indifference of the aristocrat towards the matter told him miles more than a tantrum would. In essence, Warwick was livid. The aristocrat had progressed so far beyond outright anger that he had settled for cold fury. Considering the monumental help he had been in crafting the Territories from scratch, Harry knew he had to act fast to redeem himself in the aristocrat's eyes.

To that end, he implemented the next section of his plan. Summoning Warwick to the Liverpool Council Chamber, he had informed Joshua that his talents were needed in implementing their countermeasure against Europe-based invasions. Even throughout the entire anarchy, no one had been under any illusions that the threat of a French invasion was off the table. In fact, as the civil war in the Isles heated up, so too did the fears that the French would invade to settle the islands to their liking.

So far, Remus' reports from the mainland indicated that there was no such plan to date, due in part to the fact that the French were still hard at work implementing their repressive measures against the local mage population, which had exploded into rebellion when the state-supported Registration Measures had resulted in an uncooperative mage being accidentally killed in broad daylight by security forces.

Nonetheless, there was no way the French and the Territories wouldn't come to blows eventually, particularly given the Northern leadership's ambitions to dominate the Isles and bring it up to a level that could feasibly challenge France in a military contest. To that end, Harry had ordered Joshua to Spain, to deal with the new administration and try to begin ramping up the Territories' international credentials. There were no illusions that the negotiations and diplomatic overtures would go over smoothly, but Harry knew that just ignoring the situation would be even worse in the future.

Of course, that all presupposed they won their contest with the Chiefs first.

The Chiefs of Staff had finally begun their inexorable march north a week ago, quickly overrunning the smaller, semi-independent regions with their massive forces. Along the coastline, Harry had received reports that Admiral Hughes, the First Sea Lord, had initiated several raids along the Northern Territories' coasts, undoubtedly in an opening manoeuvre to deviate defending forces.

From the air, too, the Northern Territories suffered raids, with several squadrons of bombers beginning to occasionally bomb random areas unprotected by the City Shields that the Military Mages had erected. More than once, Harry had been forced to send out troops to protect vital agricultural lands from air raids, lest they cripple his supplies.

By land, however, was where the more dreadful news filtered in.

Taylor's forces had, as predicted, overrun much of Central England, sweeping north like a tidal wave of aggression. To the outrage of much of the Territories' population, there also came reports of abuses performed by Taylor's elite soldiers along the way, prompting thousands of refugees to start swarming north.

A cunning strategy.

Harry knew his forces didn't have the resources to handle sudden surges in population, particularly with the air raids on the North's agricultural and pastoral fields. Magic could help the growth of foodstuffs along considerably, but it could not reverse craters and burning crops. If the Chiefs succeeded in overtaxing his supplies with refugees, the North would collapse without ever firing a single shot.

Naturally, then, Harry had to throw a wrench in that plan, and quick.

He sent Swift, stationed in Stoke, to push deeper into Staffordshire, wrecking havoc wherever he went and destroying vital roadways. To the east, Harry ordered Humboldt to stand by for now, waiting for the Chiefs to take the bait.

They did.

Or rather, Taylor did. Betting on the man's choleric temper, Harry was positively gleeful when he heard that the irascible general had opted to rush his western flank north to stop Swift from hindering the planned assault on the Territories. Given the lack of naval or air support for the mobilization, Harry had deduced that there had been disagreements over Taylor's deployment, which suited Harry just fine.

Fortunately, despite the mass mobilization of the western flank, Taylor's forces, in a bid to please their master, had broken formation and begun moving in clumps, thereby severely limiting the effect of their numbers. Thus, at the moment, only a fraction of Taylor's true strength had been levied against Swift's detachment, and from what Harry was hearing, things were going well.

"Report!" announced an entering courier into the situation room, where dozen of tables with maps of the Southern Front had been erected for officers, strategists, and advisors to ponder over. Everyone's attention was instantly on the courier. "General Swift's forces have managed to split the enemy vanguard into two!" he announced, just as the digital maps on the tables shifted to show the updated situation.

"Do we know who is leading the enemy force?" asked Harry calmly, ignoring the mutterings of the rest of the assembled crowd.

"General Swift says the emblems of the enemy dead show they belong to the Second Division of the Lightning Brigade," the courier replied before rushing off to the communications room to gather the next report.

Harry frowned, the mumbled conversations amongst the crowd growing louder. The Lightning Brigade was a misnomer, really. Consisting of ten thousand troops, they were the core of Taylor's army—his elites. While most of the army was made of below average conscripts, the Lightning Brigade was an opponent not to be underestimated. That meant that despite Swift's initial successes, he would be in for a tough fight.

"Which forces do we have near the battle?" he asked a nearby officer who was busy staring a hole at the digital map.

"The nearest forces are General Humboldt's advance force at Burton upon Trent, sir," the officer dutifully answered, tapping the glowing icon in question to show the troop's status.

Looking it over, Harry nodded. "Taking down the Second Division of the Lightning Brigade will take some time, which the enemy can use to send in reinforcements," he noted before turning to one of the on-hand couriers and pointing at him. "Send word to Humboldt to mobilize his advance troop to harass the enemy movements leading to Swift's battle!"

Harry couldn't even hear the acknowledgement of the courier as he turned back to the map, several officers and advisors moving up to him to offer their own counsel on the situation. Most of it was textbook advice, naturally, but a few caught his approval and were quickly dispatched.

Among them was the order to initiate a guerrilla war against Hughes' naval invasion, hoping to disable as many of the inevitable fleet's ships as possible before they ever reached the Territories. The problem was who to pick as the commander of such a detachment. Unlike the Chiefs, who had the resources to simply use Stalingrad tactics against him, Harry had to carefully weigh the abilities of his commanders and pick the exactly right person for the exactly right situation.

Frowning, Harry wished the admiral who'd delivered the remarkable victory against the Spanish navy during the Northern Landings hadn't been killed during the anarchy. Harry could've used such talent to turn Hughes back. Of course, if the admiral had lived, either Hughes would've killed him, or he could be the First Sea Lord giving him a headache right now.

Cursing at the distraction this was proving, Harry opted to delegate the task to Curtis, who would be more familiar with the naval contingent of his forces anyway.

"Report!" then came the announcement. Harry again turned his attention to the man standing in the door frame. "General Swift reports that his troop has managed to kill the enemy commander! The Second Division is reported to be in disarray and withdrawing!" A wave of cheers swept through the room. "Furthermore, General Humboldt's advance troop has managed to delay the enemy reinforcements and are now withdrawing back to Burton upon Trent for further orders!"

Harry blinked. Swift had truly given credit to his name with this turn of events. The Lightning Brigade had been the source of many nights of worried planning amongst the brass of the Territories, and for him to rout even a section of it so quickly was surprising. Pleasing, but surprising.

"Send my congratulations to General Swift and his men." Harry ordered calmly, but with a pleased smile. "Withdraw his forces back to Stoke, but tell him to continue destroying vital roadways on his way back, unless the enemy is chasing him. Should that be the case, he is to retreat to Stoke and remain there for further orders!"

"Sir!"

Harry then turned to another courier. "Send word to Humboldt to begin his own march south and commence the destruction of vital roadways," he ordered. "Tell him not to engage the enemy unless victory is certain."

"Sir!"

Even as the courier left, another one ran in. "Battle has begun at Shrewsbury!" she called out. "Forces are matched 2:1 in the enemy's favour! Commander Brixton has begun a fighting retreat!"

"Mobilize elements of our Whitchurch detachment to assist!" called out the officer in charge of that particular area of the Southern Front. Harry had long since realized that he could not be expected to micromanage everything, for which he had decided to assign several quadrants of the Southern Front to officers that, while minor in the scope of things, had nonetheless been picked by the triumvirate as having excellent judgment and grasp of strategy. Even if they faltered, they could always come to Harry and ask for assistance, or rely on the veritable army of advisors and officers who swarmed the situation room.

"Report! Battle at Peterborough between our scouts and an advance enemy party!" another courier called out. "Casualties high! Commander Forrest requests for reinforcements!"

"Negative, tell him to withdraw immediately!"

"What was he thinking, getting into a fight?" grumbled one advisor. "I knew he was bullheaded, but this takes the cake!"

"Report! Enemy raiding party has struck at Leek, aiming to destroy our croplands!"

Someone slammed a fist down in anger. "Send the garrison into battle!"

"Is that wise?" countered one advisor. "Leek's fields aren't magically enhanced, or even of vital importance to the campaign. The enemy may be trying to distract the garrison in order to seize the roads towards our command post."

"...Fine. Rescind that order! Have the garrison move to secure the roadways!"

Harry watched this veritable cacophony with calm pride. That last order had nearly gotten him involved, since he had thought of the exact same thing as the advisor. Thus, when the report came in that the enemy raiding party had withdrawn, Harry was proud of the way the commanding officer had decided to listen to the advice he'd been given.

"Report!" This courier caught Harry's attention, especially since the man was looking directly at him. "Advisor Hughes relays that the enemy has advanced up to Lincoln on the eastern flank!"

Harry was alarmed at that news. Lincoln bypassed Nottingham entirely, and was a stone's throw from Sheffield. "How?" he demanded.

"Advisor Hughes suggests they used the defeat at the hands of General Swift as a decoy to mask the advance!"

Harry swore, biting his thumb nail in frustration. While Lincoln had been thankfully isolated in its roadways from the central regions of the Territories, it was still a blow to their strategy that the enemy had penetrated so far. He had no choice now but to leave it to Hughes. "Tell Hughes to strengthen his defences and keep the enemy focused on Hull!" he ordered as he analysed the map beneath him. "Furthermore, strengthen the garrisons at Dunham on Trent and Gainsborough!"

Both towns occupied strategic crossing points on the River Trent, particularly if the aim was to strike at Sheffield.

"Sir!"

"General, Stoke and Nottingham have begun reporting sightings of refugees coming north," one advisor told him.

Harry grimaced. Ideally, he would use the situation to his advantage and so curry with the public the image of being humanitarian. However, considering the enemy he was facing and his need to keep his army and people well fed, he didn't see how he could feasibly do so, particularly after having cancelled rationing not long ago.

"Send word to Swift and Humboldt to divert the refugees to Wales," he told the advisor. "Have Speirs deal with them—he has the time."

The advisor bowed his head in acquiescence. "Yes, sir."

"Report!" yet another courier shouted. "Battle has finished at Newark on Trent! Commander Pike has scored a victory against a flanking force!"

It was almost dizzying how much the map seemed to change every few minutes. Yet, at the same time, it was telling of how much energy was being poured into this war. Traditionally, both sides would've picked key defensive locations and bunker down, sending out the occasional strike force to hopefully overwhelm the enemy defences and quickly seize victory. This war, however, was anything but traditional.

"Report!" came yet _another_ courier, hours later. "General Humboldt's troop has met with the vanguard of General Taylor's main force! Despite an initial victory, he is withdrawing back to Nottingham!"

Harry nodded in acceptance of that move. It was smart—there was no way Humboldt could win in an open battle. Rather, his strength would have to come from adopting a strong defensive position and forcing the enemy to undergo severe attrition.

Nonetheless, Harry was pleased with the performance of Swift and Humboldt. Neither man was a mage, yet both had shown themselves to be good commanders on the field, and validated his choice of them as commanders of the Stoke and Nottingham detachments respectively.

Soft beeping sounded. Surprised out of his thoughts, Harry looked down at his wrist watch and noted it was almost eight in the afternoon. He'd have to retire for the night soon, but he wasn't willing to do so while the enemy continued their march. He saw that many of his officers and officials in the room had the same look of exhaustion, but were quietly enduring it until the opening salvos were finished.

Two more hours passed by with intermittent reports before an equally exhausted looking courier practically stumbled into the situation room. "Report!" his shout was practically strained from the effort. "Enemy advances have ceased along all fronts!" he announced with a relieved smile, to everyone's relief.

Harry, too, felt enormous relief at the news. However, he wasn't about to let his guard down by the temporary respite. "Now comes the bombing runs, no doubt," he mused out loud, prompting several nods from the gathered advisors and officers near him. "Tell the City Shield squads to keep their eyes open," he ordered the courier. "And the anti-aircraft positions to ramp up their vigilance."

"Sir!"

As the courier gave his acknowledgement, one of the advisors looked at him wearily. "Sir, should we not let the relief shift take over for the night?" asked the man.

Having to bite back a yawn, Harry nodded. "Yes...quite..." he agreed. "Order the rotation," he told the same advisor.

With a nod, the man shuffled his way to a button on the wall and pressed it, making a few loudspeakers voice out a repeating three-beat tone. "Rotation is under way," a mechanical sounding female voice announced. "Rotation is under way. Night Shift to the Situation Room. Day Shift to be back by zero-nine-zero-zero hours."

Sighs of relief sounded throughout the room as the officers and advisors practically sleep walked out of the room, Harry trailing at the end in case some form of emergency occurred. When there wasn't, he followed suit to the other officers and left the room, returning the crisp, very awake salutes of the night shift officers and advisors.

The opening round was over. The Campaign for the Northern Territories was on.


	14. Chapter XII: Stoke and Hull

**_AN: Alrighty then. Before you all get out the pitchforks and knives in order to heavily maim me for taking so gosh darn long to put out this chapter, allow me to explain...please?_**

**_Basically, about a month ago, my computer got stolen - effectively taking away the only way I had to write these stories and upload them, since my iPad is still unable to do the latter part. It is only yesterday that I received a brand new lappie and can now upload at my heart's content._**

**_Fortunately, however, this means that I've had time to continue writing regardless (typically either on said iPad or at work), and thus while I'm uploading this chapter today, I will be uploading the next chapter in two days, to allow you all to digest this one at your leisure._**

**_Cheers,_**

**_MB_**

* * *

**Buxton, Northern Territories, June 20th, 2011...**

"Incoming report!"

Harry sighed as another messenger dashed into the room and came up to his planning table. So far, the defensive arrangements against the Chiefs of Staff had held true, but, as Harry had expected, their sheer numbers were already forcing him to pull back his lines to more defensible territory, which was in turn increasingly isolating Stoke and Nottingham.

Not that he feared for the safety of either of his front line generals, however. He'd picked them for very specific reasons—briefly, though perhaps _too_ briefly, they were the best at what they did.

"Let's hear it," he ordered the messenger, who saluted back at the order.

"Yes, sir!" acknowledged the soldier. "Commander Rivet wishes to inform you that the centre of our formation has been pushed back two more miles, and are taking position at fallback position Nine!"

Grumbling erupted from Harry's advisors at the news; personally, he didn't blame them. The centre of their defensive lines had been consistently pushed back every day of the engagement, through no fault of their own. Simply put, it showed that Taylor was being rather obsessive about reaching Buxton, having recognized its strategic importance in the southern defense.

"Anything else?" asked Harry as he watched a couple of aides move the pieces on the map to adjust to the new situation.

The soldier nodded. "Despite the setback at the centre, Commander Rivet reports that the defensive line at Stoke and Nottingham seem to be holding firmly!"

"Some good news, at least," one of Harry's advisors, opined. "Generals Swift and Humboldt are doing well to keep so many enemy troops at bay."

Harry nodded at the advisor before turning his attention back to the messenger. "Inform Commander Divet to hold the line at his current position. We cannot afford them getting any closer to Buxton," he ordered calmly. "Then, send word to Stoke and Nottingham, and inform Swift and Humboldt to begin a fighting retreat back to the primary defense line. Tell Swift...I want a grave."

"Sir, is that wise?" asked one of the advisors after the soldier had left. "We currently have an opportunity to use Nottingham and Stoke as bases to strike at the rear of Taylor's advance in the centre. If we did so, we could isolate the forward elements of his march!"

"At the cost of two cities, advisor," Harry calmly deflected the criticism. "Taylor _wants_ us to try and retake the centre, because it would inevitably mean weakening our defenses in Stoke and Nottingham, allowing him to overwhelm whatever we have there and take two of our vital cities, which would in turn leave our flanks open."

"However, if we pull back to the primary defensive line, we will be able to draw them in further into our territory, and use the advantage of terrain to harass them," Harry continued as he slid his hands on the map to illustrate his strategy. "Furthermore, if Taylor attempts to cut off the retreat of either contingent with his central forces, Divet will be able to push them back. Either way, we will win this particular engagement."

"But with two cities under his control, Taylor will be more capable of launching further attacks on our positions!" protested another advisor.

Harry smirked. "Only if they're intact," he countered calmly as he used his pointer fingers to tip over the digital figurines used to symbolize the cities of Nottingham and Stoke-on-Trent.

* * *

**Stoke-on-Trent, Northern Territories, June 20th, 2011...**

"Man...what a drag."

"Sir..." one of the aides present admonished.

William Swift, commander of the Stoke Front and general of the Northern Territories armed forces, sighed again in response to the aide's chastisement. Overhead, he could hear the boom of another shell explosion as the enemy barrage continued.

Almost absently, he noticed his cigarette's tip seemed to be accumulating a lot of ash, and so plucked it out of his mouth and let it drop behind the battered couch, much to the irritation of his aide de camps.

"Sir, this is a private home," the young woman reminded him. "We're only leasing it while the siege is on."

"It's property of the state," Swift countered lazily. "And I'm part of the state. Ergo, this is my property right now," he pointed out as he remained lounging on the sofa, his gaze fixed on the ceiling above, his mind settling on the events at hand.

The Siege of Stoke had begun two weeks ago, following his initial victory over the disorganized western vanguard of Taylor's assault north. Ever since then, he'd managed to find no more openings in the enemy formation to deliver a similar blow to their assault, forcing him to withdraw into the city proper and hold out for as long as he could.

Practically every minute, shells exploded overhead as they slammed into the protective City Shield that the Military Mages had erected, and while it still held strong, there was no escaping the fact that in a few more days, it would begin to decay as the Military Mages began to tire out, despite the rotational scheme of the ritual.

Of course, his most recent orders from Command, currently loosely grasped in his left hand, seemed to alleviate this responsibility from his mages' shoulders. A fighting retreat, he was ordered. To the primary defensive line.

His aide-de-camps had been quite vocal about carrying out the order immediately, but Swift liked to take his time. On the surface, it was just pure laziness, and he delivered on the whole "layabout" routine. However, the truth was that Swift didn't like to be rushed because he always enjoyed seeking out the hidden depths of his orders.

For instance, when he was first deployed to Stoke, he'd been told to defend the city. Yet, instead of just placing garrisons at key positions, he destroyed the roads leading to Liverpool and burned quite a few acres of cropland—both actions resulted in commendations from the General of the North himself.

See, Swift had long since realized that orders taken to their literal extent tended to come up short, since there was no way to predict every single factor in a battle. Thus, Swift adhered to a rule laid out in the Art of War, by Sun Tzu: "a general in the field is not always bound by his lord's command."

So, what was it that his boss _really_ wanted him to do?

He closed his eyes, tuning out his aide, and pictured the situation as he knew it. His city was pretty much surrounded, except for a small opening he'd managed to maintain. It had surprised him that the enemy had failed to realize this mistake, but now he wasn't so sure. After all, it was a common tactic to leave open a single route of escape so the enemy could later launch an ambush. Furthermore, the idea of escape would prevent the defenders in a siege from digging in their heels and fighting to the death.

What was it, then?

He let out a burst of smoke, ignoring the aide's complaints about the smell and fallen ash. In a few hours, all of those complaints would be moot. He understood his commander's desire to see the city destroyed-after all, if you had to abandon a fully functioning city, then the least he could do is destroy as much of it as he could to prevent the enemy from using its resources to launch further attacks. That much wasn't in question.

What _was_ in question was the idea of a fighting retreat. Did the Chief want him to simply pull back his troops and engage the enemy whenever they caught up to him? That _was_ the idea of a fighting retreat, after all. But no, that made no sense. If Command wanted him at the primary defensive lines, which were all that stood between the Chiefs of Staff and the heartland of the Northern Territories, then why wasn't he ordered to just book it straight there?

An idea then popped into his mind, causing him to open his eyes in surprise as the realization hit him. "Who's in charge of the besieging army?" he asked lazily as he remained lounging on the couch.

The aide grumbled at her boss' lack of focus, wishing he'd just get on with issuing the order to retreat already. "General Graves," she nonetheless replied dutifully. Graves was a well known adherent of General Taylor's, and a known enemy of the man. It was an odd dichotomy, to be sure, but it was also well known that Graves hated the mages more than he hated Taylor, and thus had consented to serving under the man. However, perhaps due to Taylor's own paranoia, Graves was reported to consistently be at the front lines of every engagement—probably due to Taylor's hope that he would get killed at some point.

"Graves..." he mused out loud. "Ha...I see. Clever," he added with a smirk before he snatched his cigarette out of his lips with one hand and flung the written order to his aide with the other. "Have a tenth of our troops ready up for a sally," he ordered. "And get our scouts to report Grave's location!"

The aide blinked. "Sir?"

Finally getting up from the couch, Swift grabbed his combat rifle, which was leaning against the couch, and went right for the door. "We're going hunting!" he called back at her as he left the room, accompanied by a few soldiers as bodyguards.

As he made his way down the hallway of the building towards the stairs, Swift grinned. He got it. He finally got it.

The Chief wasn't asking him to retreat nicely to the lines. He wasn't even really asking for a fighting retreat! He wanted Graves eliminated, and the city gone from his worries.

Well, Swift would oblige.

* * *

**Buxton, Northern Territories...**

"Are we sure Swift can handle the situation?" asked an aide.

Harry smiled as he leaned on the interactive map table he'd ordered set up for the upcoming Stoke encounter. "Swift is many things, advisor," Harry noted. "Lazy, a little undisciplined, and perhaps even a tad indulgent in his smoking habit, but he is no fool. He'll read the orders I _really_ gave him."

"But sir, sallying out of Stoke is a risky move!" protested another aide. "If General Graves seized on the opportunity, he could flank and overrun the city defenses once the City Shield went down!"

"Have a little faith, advisor," Harry said with a confident smirk. "I'll say it again: Swift is no man's fool. He knows as much as we do what this gamble entails, so he'll wait for the precise moment to execute his orders."

Harry's head perked up as his intuition picked something up in the air. "In fact, I believe we should be hearing about his next move right about..."

"REPORT!" a soldier all but screamed as he rushed into the room.

"Now," Harry said concurrently with a satisfied smile as he straightened up and turned to face the soldier. "Go on, soldier," he prompted the messenger.

The man nodded his head and saluted in acquiescence. "Sir! General Swift has lowered the City Shield and begun a sally against the southern flank of the encirclement!" he reported. "Initial reports indicate the enemy has broken formation and begun retreating!"

"Along the whole line, or just that area?" asked Harry calmly as the people around him began conversing amongst themselves excitedly.

"Just the breached areas and close by positions, sir," the soldier clarified. "However, the enemy has seized upon the act and has begun a flanking move to the city's eastern and western flanks!"

"Here it comes," grumbled one advisor, shooting Harry a disapproving frown.

"Be patient, advisor," Harry stated calmly before returning his attention to the messenger. "Please update the tactical map to reflect the situation as it occurs," he ordered. "See to it."

The soldier saluted and promptly left, leaving Harry to his advisor team.

"What General Swift has done is something you should all commit to memory, gentlemen," Harry lectured his team, though many of the other officers and officials in the room turned to listen. "Sometimes, the risky move is the correct one. By keeping to textbook maneuvers, Swift would have dug in and awaited relief that would have never come, and Graves could have moved his finest regiments towards the center, where he would've linked up with Taylor in a concerted attack on our position here."

"But sir, what if Graves had kept his best troops on the line?" asked an advisor. "What if we had calculated wrong?"

"Then Swift would've realized this and returned to his positions," Harry answered calmly. "A good general remains calm in the face of the unexpected. I suspect Graves, however, is not such an officer, nor does his record seem to imply this."

A beep on the map table had the group turn to watch the interactive map shift to reflect a new movement. "Ah, see?" Harry asked with a smile. As he'd predicted, the enemy icons on the map seemed to scramble about in a disorganized fashion as the blue icons denoting the Northern forces doubled back from their central breakthrough and flanked the enemy line from behind.

"A wise prediction, sir," complimented one advisor. "However, now that the element of surprise is over, how will General Swift move to deal with Graves' superior numbers?"

Harry pointed to the map where Swift's troops were beginning to assault the enemy from behind. "I cannot speak for Swift, but from what we can observe, how would you all judge Graves' command style?" he asked with a wry smile.

There was a moment of silence as the crowd of officers and advisors observed the map and conferred amongst themselves. After a few minutes, during which the map continuously updated itself, one of them caught Harry's attention with a raised hand. "Sir, it seems Graves favours a head-on approach to combat. Furthermore, he seems to favour a solid formation."

Harry nodded before motioning to the map. "And yet General Swift is a man who favours fluid formations and tactical strikes," Harry pointed out. "Thus, from this information, what can we infer of General Swift's battle plan?" he asked.

There was silence from his audience, though Harry could see that many had looks of realization, hoping to see if he could confirm their guesses. "When fluid formations meet hard formations, it is only natural that the fluid formations shift in order to dissipate the momentum of the enemy attack," Harry explained. "Thus, even if Graves wishes to bring down on General Swift the full might of his forces, it will all be for naught if he can't pin down our units."

As he said, the map shifted to show that Swift's troops had begun evading the bulk of enemy forces, opting for quick strikes and retreats. "If the enemy outnumbers you, be able to withdraw," Harry quoted from Sun Tzu. "This is advice from Sun Tzu, yet note that he never said you _must_ withdraw."

"To deny a larger force the ability to bring forth all its might is a cornerstone of strategy, gentlemen," Harry lectured. "And General Swift understands this. Thus, though I cannot fathom what he might have as a final objective, I can hazard a guess, based on his actions and the rules of war."

Harry pointed to Stoke on Trent where, slowly, troops had begun to amass near the south eastern edge of the city. "Who else noticed that while Swift's detached forces took battle to Graves, these units congregated here?" he asked calmly, not surprised to see many look surprised at the information. After all, most of the units' movements had been hidden by drawing attention to the skirmishes.

"Why has the enemy not reacted?" asked an advisor as he scrutinized the map. "It's a significant shift of forces, to be sure."

"For the same reason we did not — the skirmishes outside the city has caught the enemy's attention," answered another. "I see. It's a trap."

Harry nodded. "That is my guess as well. Swift will undoubtedly humiliate Graves with a few more skirmishes and then pull back towards the city with the enemy hot on his trail, eager to finish him off. When they follow him into the city proper, Swift's hidden units will then surprise the enemy and destroy them," Harry explained with a wry smile. It wasn't as though he was guessing, really. Given that he'd issued a very specific order to Swift, he was expecting the eccentric man to pull off something like this. "We must now be patient and wait for the result of this battle."

It turned out to be the right advice, as another soldier, this time a woman, rushed in frantically no more than half an hour later.

"REPORT!" she yelled. "The enemy advance on Stoke has halted!" she reported, practically out of breath in excitement. "Multiple explosions have been reported along their breaching paths, and mass enemy casualties have been reported!"

Shocked looks of amazement (and a few of vindicated satisfaction) permeated the room at the news. Harry smiled at the news, barely noting that the interactive map table had shifted to reflect the new reality of that particular battle. "And?" he prompted calmly.

"Sir, General Swift reports..." the female cadet seemed about ready to keel over from excitement. "General Swift reports a confirmed kill on the enemy General Graves!"

The shocked silence of the prior announcement gave way to shouts of joyous disbelief as the crowd of military officers and advisors realized the significant victory they had just gained at Stoke. Yet, amongst the maelstrom of celebration, Harry and a core group of advisors remained calm in the face of such a victory, already conferring amongst themselves for the next move.

"General Swift has achieved a great victory, ridding us of the enemy commander of the Western flank," opined one advisor. "But there is still the matter of successfully withdrawing from Stoke to the established line."

"Why retreat at all?" questioned one officer. "If we seize this opportunity, we could push back the enemy with the threat of a flanking move!"

"A sound idea, but you forget the masses of enemy troops bringing up Graves' rear," Harry pointed out. "Even if we push the Western flank back a few miles, we'll still hit the main force of Taylor's expedition, which Swift will be ill equipped to deal with. No, first we must consolidate our gains and return Swift to the main battle line."

There was a chorus of muted agreement amongst the close-knit circle of advisors, all of them key decision makers recommended by Sirius, Joshua, William, and Hughes for their advanced intellect and sound reasoning skills.

Now, most of them weren't exactly necessary, insofar as Harry was concerned. One might even call their presence a waste of resources. However, Harry knew better. The reason he had so many advisors and officers recruited wasn't so they could advise him in particular — for the most part, his strategy was thought out in advance with Hughes, William, Joshua, Sirius, Speirs, and Curtis. However, his close encounters with death, and at the suggestion of William and Curtis, Harry had come to realize that having such a small circle of key decision makers was, in a word, stupid.

What if he got hurt again and got taken out of the decision making process? What if the small circle became disconnected from each other? The overall well being of the Northern Territories would take a sharp fall, and Harry couldn't allow that.

Thus, this arrangement. Even if Harry didn't particularly need the advisory teams, he made sure to promote soldiers and civilians with an aptitude for strategic thinking to such teams in order to better guide their education. That way, if anything happened to him, someone (or someones) could fill in for him without being a major detriment to the nation's strategic power.

* * *

**Northwich, Northern Territories, June 24th...**

Four days had passed since the stunning victory at Stoke-on-Trent.

Swift's army, having achieved their goal in destabilizing the western flank, had quickly pulled out of the city, all the while burning and destroying the land they left behind and shepherding the recalcitrant population of said areas towards the north.

Certainly, the Northern leadership had predicted the strain these refugees would have on the war effort, but neither could they afford so much manpower to fall into enemy hands. By depriving them of these refugees, Taylor and his ilk would be forced to keep conscripting from their home bases rather than from the local population. This would, in turn, serve to further destabilize their regime and force them to divide their attention from the main offensive to deal with the growing anger of their oppressed subjects.

Not that many were aware of that particular line of thought, of course. To the public's understanding, the forced eviction of local populations was merely meant as a humanitarian move by the government to prevent them from falling into the hands of the tyrannical Chiefs of Staff.

That had been Joshua's idea.

Even while still acting officially as the public face of the government while abroad, Joshua always found the time to return to his old, propagandist ways whenever a crisis occurred back home. Unfortunately, given that his old post had been filled by James Potter, this sometimes brought him in direct conflict with his successor, who wasn't as comfortable in using propaganda and spin to justify the government's actions. Rather, James Potter was of the school of thought that if the government was simply honest with the people, then they would gain the people's respect on a far more solid basis.

Unfortunately, his two sons disagreed.

Maybe it was due to the fact that William and Harry had both been in the midst of their revolutionary movement from the very beginning, or the fact that they'd engineered most of the current situation. Regardless of the reason, however, there was no disputing that the two brothers shared a mind when it came to the lengths one had to go to in order to secure power. It was also something they were hard at work in teaching their little sister, much to their parents' dismay.

In fact, Harry had purposely brought Isabella with him on his official visit to the western front headquarters at Northwich for this very reason. Standing beside her imposing (well, not in stature so much as sheer force of presence) brother, Isabella's natural looks and peaceful expression was quite the offset from Harry's gruff, worn, and militaristic appearance.

Of course, not many understood why she was there to begin with.

"Was it really necessary for General White to bring his sister?" muttered one such official as he and his colleagues stood off to the side of the elevated platform from which Harry was giving his speech, congratulating Swift's army for their victory. "The battlefield is no place for trophy women."

"She has the White blood in her," noted another official. "It would do well not to judge her based on her looks," he warned.

"He's right," agreed an officer. "Lady Isabella is the favoured sibling of both General White and his brother. It is likely she has a grand future ahead of her."

"Lady?" parroted another official, curious. "I hadn't heard of any investments made for the White family before the king died."

The officer rolled his eyes. "Yes, Lady. That's what the public is calling her," he explained. "Face it, with the way the Whites have helped our country and hold on to power, it's pretty damn obvious they're going to take the throne sooner or later," he lectured his colleagues.

There were quite a few frowns at that, but even more looks of realization and acceptance. "It makes sense," agreed one official. "I mean, once the war is over, they'd either have to give up power or retain it in official capacity. I don't think anyone wants the Whites out of power, though."

"Why not get themselves elected, then?" countered one voice of reason. "There's no need to establish a dictatorship!"

"For what? So that some tosser can rile the people up and throw them out because of their lineage?" countered the obviously pro-White officer. "Face it: no one else is remotely as capable of getting us out of this mess and back onto the world stage as the Whites and their allies," he argued.

A few meters away from the small group of bickering officials, up on the platform behind Harry, sat Neville and Xeno, both of whom were present at the ceremony at Harry's invitation. Well, not quite for Neville — he was just there to guard the boss, despite his insistence that he'd be better suited to battlefield operations. Regardless, both had heard the arguments of the group, and both felt small smiles form as they realized how well things were developing.

"Looks like everything's going as planned," Neville noted in a mumble to his colleague.

Xeno smirked. "Took long enough," he agreed. The operation William had secretly ordered, without Harry's knowledge, to build up the reputation and legitimacy of their rule via mass popular dissemination, had been initiated well over two months ago, when the king's health had become obviously fatal.

At first, it had started off as nothing more than idle gossip about the many benefits the new administration had brought them. However, as time went on, Xeno had his agents spice up the gossip by mentioning the grand state of their nation vis-a-vis the rest of Europe. This gradually snowballed, all on its own, into mass declarations of support for the ruling administration.

Of course, in a world where the mages had never been revealed and the world wasn't constantly on the brink of World War III, there was no way this sort of thing would've happened so smoothly. Yet, Xeno had seized upon the circumstances to maximize the spread of the belief that the administration in power had their best interests at heart and was far more efficient than any other in the world. It wasn't all that hard, either.

With the Great Reveal, the world had undergone profound social changes. The idea of cooperation between nations fell into the backseat as every country in the world was forced to deal with the revelation that a whole society of powerful individuals had lived hidden from scrutiny for centuries, if not millennia in the case of native populations in the Americas and other civilizations. Thus, with one wave of uncertainty after another, the people of the world were in such a place as to desire for some measure of stability and normalcy.

Xeno and his cohorts were only too happy to comply.

Mixing hundreds, if not thousands of his agents into the population, he had these very vocal supporters of the regime publicly defend and praise the government's efforts in bringing the nation back into order, while at the same time condemning the mages in Scotland and the Chiefs of Staff, and foreign countries for failing to do the same.

Add to that the visible support that the king had given Harry Potter (or Francis White, depending on your own tastes), and it was only too obvious that the idea that the regime was legitimate and should stay in power for as long as possible would begin to take root in the minds of many. As Joshua was fond of saying, "there is nothing the people will not believe with a good PR campaign."

"How's things going below the front lines?" Neville asked, tuning out the oft-rehearsed speech given by his charge.

Xeno shrugged. "About as good as we could expect. The leaflets and posters are helping to spread dissatisfaction, but Taylor's no slouch in keeping order," Xeno reminded his colleague. "Anyway, without a liberating military presence, the odds of the population south of the front lines rebelling are extremely low."

"Can't blame them," Neville opined, then breaking the conversation in order to clap along with the crowd as Harry finished a particularly emotive sentence. It never failed to amaze Neville how his boss seemed to be able to bolster the people's morale with but a few speeches and well crafted strategies. "No one wants to start a rebellion if it's doomed to fail," he then told Xeno.

The older mage nodded gravely, frowning. "Indeed, but this does mean we're rather stuck," he pointed out. "After all, without problems in their rear, the Chiefs can continue focusing all they've got against us."

"What about the Lord Minister?"

Xeno snorted. "Lord Warwick's enjoying his Spanish escapades," he said a mite derisively. After Warwick had heard of Xeno's prior publication tendencies (back when he was still Editor of the Quibbler), the noble had been a little colder to the mage. According to Harry, it was due to Warwick's eternal hatred of tabloid newspapers. "So who knows what he thinks."

Neville chuckled softly at his colleague's distaste for the noble. "Well, at least these lads managed to make it back," Neville said with a lazy smile. "I hear Humboldt had to stay in Nottingham because of suspicious movements on the eastern front."

Xeno groaned softly. "Don't remind me," he complained. "It's got the Service completely on edge. Whatever Taylor's doing on that end, he's learned his lesson from the western front. We've been unable to read his moves at all."

"What about sending in covert mages?" asked Neville.

"You don't think we tried?" Xeno countered. "Problem is, Taylor's enacted strict security protocols that are making access to information and reporting back incredibly difficult. Unless we want our spies to blow their cover, we can't rely on them this time around."

"Well, at least Hughes is in charge of the east," Neville said comfortingly. "There's no way Taylor will get the upper hand if he comes across that man."

Xeno sighed. "I sure hope so."

As the duo continued their (rather rude) conversation behind him, Harry had continued with his speech, for all appearances completely dedicated to praising and congratulating the soldiers of Swift's army. Yet, Harry had heard everything the duo had said.

It was naive of his brother to think that he hadn't learned of the plot to effectively legitimize his rise to the throne. Having aimed for exactly that for the better part of two years now, Harry had long thought on enacting such a move himself. All his brother had done was preempt him, which did not displease him. It showed that, even without his direction, William could step up to the plate and rule in his absence. A good thing to know while an heir was still lacking.

The question was, could his sister, too, contribute to the rise to power of their family? _That_ was what he wanted to know with this official visit. Bringing Isabella along was more than just a simple presentation of the third Potter sibling to the public eye — for the first time ever; it was also a chance for him to see how she would act under public scrutiny.

So far, she had done well by standing beside her brother like a good, loyal sibling would. She had prettied herself some, though not enough to come across as snobby or extravagant. Nor did she wear designer clothing, choosing instead for the same, common blouse and skirt the majority of women were having to wear in these times of war. Overall, she was so far shining as an example of a good, humble member of the leadership's family.

It was when the speech finished, however, that Harry truly got to see Isabella at work. He had long pondered where she could be of best use to the family's interests, but apparently she had come to that conclusion all by herself, as she followed him down the steps of the platform towards the soldiers and immediately began to mingle, using her charming personality to its fullest advantage.

More than once, as they moved through the crowd of thankful soldiers, Harry saw many a man (and a few women) looking besotted with his sister. When they reached the wounded, however, Isabella truly shone.

Taking like a fish to water, she folded up her sleeves, asked for scrubs, and immediately began assisting the medics and orderlies in helping the wounded. At first, the medical staff had looked uneasy about allowing a civilian to interfere, since no one liked amateurs getting in the middle of procedures as delicate as medical care. When they were informed that Isabella had been studying a medical career in Canada, however, their fears were assuaged and they became much warmer towards her presence.

Watching her work, Harry couldn't help the growing smile on his face. Given the very little time they had managed to scrounge up over the years to meet and connect as siblings, Harry had always worried Isabella would prove a wild card to his ambitions. Yet, since her arrival, she had shown herself completely devoted to her family and, as William pointed out, completely admiring of her elder brothers. Both brothers suspected that careful manipulation of information by their parents had led their sister down that path, since her caring nature would've chafed if she'd become aware of the horrific things they had done to reach their positions of power.

"_It's fine, though, isn't it?"_ William had asked him during one of the rare times the brothers were able to sit down and have a drink. _"There's no need for Isabella to get dragged down into the mud. If we handle the ugly side of ruling, let her be the positive side. That way, some of the love for us is genuine._"

It was an incredibly cynical way of putting things, but Harry could also credit his brother for having thought of their sister — even if it was formulated in a not-so-brotherly fashion.

To think for a moment he'd thought William had finally found his emotions!

What Isabella did not do, however, was use her magic — something Harry noted after watching her work for a few minutes. She wasn't nearly as powerful as either William or Harry, true, but she was capable enough to wield most medical spells with casual ease. Nonetheless, she seemed hellbent on foregoing it unless directly necessary or requested. It took a short, sweeping glance at the room full of patients to see why. Simply put, there still existed widespread distrust for magic, and Isabella was forging her own pedestal by foregoing it in an attempt to win over their trust.

It was a very smart move, Harry had to admit. Just like that, many of his worries for his sister began to dissipate.

It was also then that an aide decided to shuffle his way to his side and give a soft, polite cough.

"What is it?" Harry asked calmly, arms folded, his good humour starting to dissipate.

"Sir, Advisor Hughes is on the line," the aide informed him in a whisper, confirming his worry. "Apparently there's been movement on the eastern flank."

Harry glanced at the soldier before nodding. "Very well. Patch it through to my office."

"Yes, sir."

Within a minute (thank Merlin for Apparation!), Harry was in his personal office, the door locked, and the intercom of his phone activated.

"Harry here," he spoke up.

"_Harry, it's Hughes. Listen, whatever Swift did at Stoke, it's got the eastern flank excitable,_" reported Hughes' disembodied voice. "_I think Taylor's going to go for a flanking attempt on our cities, to try and join up with the northern invasions._"

That was a problem. With the western approach all but halted and their momentum lost, Harry knew Taylor's attempt at a direct seizure of Liverpool was shot. However, if they did try to break through the eastern front and in so doing link up with the northern enemy forces, then the Northern Territories would be in big trouble — not the least of which would be the fact that Harry's ultimate plan for defeating the Chiefs of Staff would become moot.

"Got any ideas on how to stop them?" he asked, troubled.

There was a pause for a moment. "_...One. But you're not going to like it._"

"Given the current situation, Albert, I don't think my personal feelings will have much say in this."

* * *

**Hull, Northern Territories, June 25th, 2011...**

"I don't see why we can't just engage Carmody in battle."

Hughes sighed as he listened to the soldiers grumble as they marched quickly over the bridge towards Hull. Brigadier Carmody, one of Taylor's Lightning Brigade subordinates, had seized on the Eastern retreat of the Northern forces by pushing his lines further up, finally threatening to overrun Hughes' defenses three nights ago.

Hughes had done well in keeping the skilled enemy general at bay, but he was also a realist — Carmody could afford costly manoeuvres due to his enormous pool of reserves, but Hughes had no such luxury. If he attempted to stand his ground, he would lose, and the first few skirmishes against Carmody had proven that.

But that was assuming Hughes played fair.

"Status report," he ordered a close by aide.

The downcast man nodded sullenly as he brought up the information on his electronic tablet. "The rearguard elements in Scunthorpe and Grimsby are managing to hold the enemy at bay while we conduct our retreat, but it won't last long," the aide reported. "Furthermore, post-action reports indicate the enemy has taken to specifically hunting down and targeting our officer corps. Nearly half of the commissioned officers have been killed in the Scunthorpe and Grimsby fighting."

That would account for the veritable convoy of battlefield ambulances racing past the retreating troops, Hughes mused. "What about movements towards the west?" he asked calmly, his eyes still fixed upon the downcast troops trudging their way across the doomed bridge towards Hull.

The aide sighed. "So far, the enemy has not attempted to seize Doncaster after having taken costly defeats in a few probing skirmishes," the aide stated dispassionately. "However, with Scunthorpe and Grimsby about to fall, our scouts report that larger concentrations of enemy troops have begun amassing in that direction. Command seems to think it might be the prelude to a push to link the enemy's centre with the eastern flank."

"It isn't," Hughes assured the aide. "Taylor won't want to stop his approach towards Buxton just for that. He's too impatient," he added for good measure. "Inform Command that the troop movement is likely a bluff. The real enemy offensive will be towards Rawcliff Bridge."

"Yes, sir," confirmed the aide as he began typing on the tablet.

At that moment, a motorcycle speeding their way screeched to a halt before Hughes, its passenger looking a little worse for wear, but uninjured.

"Sir, Private Collins, Fifth Reconnaissance," he introduced himself with a salute. "I have reports from the rearguard at Scunthorpe and Grimsby."

Hughes returned the salute crisply and nodded. "Go ahead, soldier."

"Sir, the evacuation procedures haven't yet been completed," the soldier reported as he drew up his goggles. "However, the enemy offensive on Grimsby and Scunthorpe are proving too much for our lads. The commanders expect their defenses to buckle inside two hours."

Hughes grimaced visibly. "And their communications are still cut?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"Correct, sir," the private confirmed. "The enemy has been jamming communications ever since the evacuation started."

Leaving the defenders unable to coordinate in real time with Command, Hughes noted. Carmody was a true soldier, unlike Graves. He had taken note of two mobilizations on the part of the defenders and seized on the opportunity to wreck havoc.

"How bad is it?" he asked bluntly. Even with these reports, nothing truly beat the raw truth of a soldier's perspective.

"It's bad," the private stated grimly. "The enemy has begun shelling our positions with everything they've got, and the captain," here he referred to the man in charge of the Scunthorpe rearguard, "thinks the enemy is planning on initiating aerial bombardment to cover another advance."

"What about Grimsby?"

"It's worse there," the soldier reported as he gratefully took a canteen of water from Hughes' aide and drank from it. "They've lost the colonel, and the only officer left standing is a second lieutenant," he noted. "She's holding the troops together, but you'd have to be daft not to see how hard pressed they are. The enemy snipers are keeping the lads' heads down, which is making it bloody impossible to keep the enemy troops at bay."

Hughes bit his thumb in frustration. He needed more time. Not for the first time, he mused the idea of sending in a squad of Military Mages, but just as quickly disregarded that idea. True, they had devastating powers to back them up, but that didn't make them any less human or vulnerable to concentrated weapons fire or sniper rounds. He'd be sending them to their deaths in exchange for little gains.

Of course, there was always the possibility of sending them further back to disrupt the enemy's supply lines, but Hughes doubted Carmody would leave his supply routes unguarded. An assassination of the man himself was also out of the question — Taylor had raised his army to be able to counteract the most efficient use of the mages. Short of suicide bombing the enemy HQ — and there weren't enough mages to go around for _that_ option to be cost effective — there was no way to attempt an assassination plot with any degree of expected success.

Graves, notwithstanding, of course. The man had been an idiot to lead his army's charge of retribution against Swift.

The problem was, he did have an idea of how to deal with Carmody, just as he'd told Harry, but he wasn't as certain it could work. It was, in American Football terminology, the mother of all Hail Mary's.

It wasn't hard to see why — already just by reaching the banks of the Humber Estuary, the enemy forces had penetrated Northern territory, and if they somehow managed to breach Humboldt's defenses, they would have a clear shot at Sheffield and Manchester, two critical strategic assets.

This was Hughes' gamble. He had drawn the enemy into home territory by consistently ceding ground and pulling back his forces. It hadn't made him popular with his men, but Hughes cared little about that. They still obeyed his orders and respected his authority, which was good enough for now. Carmody, for his part, had played the part of invader fabulously, having realized that leaving Hughes with his army intact (even if in full retreat) was a dangerous thing, and so pushing his forces to overtake the retreating forces.

Fortunately, the rearguard had done a heroic job in keeping the enemy at bay. Sure, Carmody could have gone around the defenders, but then he'd have enemy elements on his flanks and possible enemy rally points within his formation. He couldn't allow that — more importantly, Taylor would never allow that. It was something Hughes had counted on.

"How are we on time?" he asked his aide pointedly.

"The evacuation is proceeding as planned, sir," the aide stated. "We currently stand at 80% completion. The remaining troops ought to be in Hull within five hours"

It was a logistical feat, but not quick enough. "Rearguard won't last that long, sir," the messenger soldier pointed out as he returned the canteen to the aide.

Hughes nodded in agreement. "Tell the remaining troops to double time it. Send any troop carriers already within Hull back to pick up any stragglers and _bring them here now_," he ordered firmly. "Drop any non-essential equipment; rations, camping equipment...anything that can't shoot or stab is to be left behind!"

The aide nodded and quickly activated his earpiece to relay the instructions, while Hughes turned his attention to the messenger. "Go back to Scunthorpe and Grimsby and inform the rearguard that their job is almost done. Tell them to start pulling back in one hour."

"What if they don't last that long?" asked the messenger as he revved up his acquired motorbike (courtesy of some civilian who'd fled without it).

Hughes gave him a grim look. "Then tell them to buy us every second they can, and to take as many of the bastards down with them."

* * *

In the end, it had been the second option.

Collins, with his near-miraculous ability to survive the extraordinarily lethal warzones of Grimsby and Scunthorpe, had been the messenger once again, aided by his trusty salvaged motorbike. This time, however, he brought no good news of continued resistance. As a matter of fact, he was only able to pass on the message of Scunthorpe and Grimsby's fall before being rushed to the surgeon due to his numerous bullet wounds. It had been a miracle and a half that he'd even managed to hold on as long as he did.

Standing on the Hull side of the Humber Bridge, Hughes could see the columns of black, acrid smoke in the distance where Scunthorpe and Grimsby where. Two towns lost, and the enemy advance into Northern Territory had resumed with full force, despite the costly toll for taking the two strategic positions.

"Should we wait for the enemy to attempt to cross the bridge before detonating it?" asked his aide, standing dutifully at his side.

"No, Carmody won't be crossing the bridge," Hughes predicted. "If his psychology stays consistent, he'll have thought of the possibility of our demolishing the bridge. No, if I were him, I'd take my chances going around the estuary and blockade the southern exit of the bridge."

"What about crossing the estuary without the bridge?" pointed out the aide.

"Too risky, and his main strength is in his numbers. Water crossings minimize that advantage," Hughes dismissed the idea. "No, Carmody is likely to try and find another way around. The Scunthorpe bridges were demolished, right?" he asked, turning his head to look at his aide.

The man nodded. "Beyond repair. According to Private Collins' report, it was the last act of the rearguard."

Hughes nodded back. "Good. That means the closest intact bridge will be at Gainsborough," he recalled. "That will be his crossing point."

"He could just deploy bridges," the aide pointed out.

Hughes shook his head. "Carmody knows he's in enemy territory. He knows there's likely to be militia around, so he won't risk deploying in open ground. He'll want fixed structures to protect the crossing points, and Gainsborough is deep enough within their lines that they won't have to worry about enemy incursions," Hughes analyzed. "By now, he's probably just realizing all this."

Just then, a loud snap was heard and Hughes dispassionately watched as a bullet silently screeched to a halt before his eyes. Beside him, his aide had a hand out, magical energy giving it a soft glow.

"Please be more careful, Advisor Hughes," the man requested calmly. "As I mentioned before, this area is well within sniper range. It would do well to return to the safety of the bunker."

Hughes smiled as he reached out and put his open palm below the floating bullet. Without warning, the projectile fell into his open palm. He held it between two fingers then, looking it over dispassionately, and then closed his fist around it. Without a word, he turned around and started walking back, giving his aide a smile.

"Very well. Let's see if we can't do to Carmody what you just did to this bullet."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

**Gainsborough, Northern Territories, July 3rd, 2011...**

Carmody was having a terrible day.

First of all, that asshole Hughes — a mere intelligence officer! — had managed to stall his glorious march north with a mere handful of soldiers at Grimsby and Scunthorpe. Then, he'd boobytrapped the Humber bridge, as he'd expected, forcing him to seek another way around the estuary.

Naturally, the first thing that came to mind was to just send the troops over the water on rafts, but that was quickly aborted once the first thirty rafts were blown out of the water. Then he attempted to use the Scunthorpe bridges, only to have his scouts report that both of them had been demolished beyond repair. With those two events alone, Carmody had wanted to scream — the messenger who'd reported the loss of the bridges had, courtesy of a bullet in his gut from an enraged Carmody.

Still, this wasn't enough to deter him from his vow to crush the insolent intelligence officer who mocked his advance with his mere presence in Hull, right across a still-intact bridge. At first, he'd thought perhaps the explosives on the bridge were bluffs, but his experts had informed him that they really, really weren't. Even worse, they couldn't take them off — not even on their side of the bridge — without triggering the fail-safes.

That left Carmody with one option — bridge the river. Even if the Scunthorpe bridges were gone, the river itself wasn't so wide as to prevent him from deploying mobile bridges. So he'd tried that. And failed.

That bastard Hughes had mined the goddamn rivers!

Now really at his wit's end, his entourage had avoided him at all times to prevent him from using them to externalize his rage. No one dared voice an opinion or report for fear it'd make him snap and kill them. Even worse was the fact that Taylor had begun sending angry demands for him to explain his stall. Carmody was acutely aware that as terrible as he personally was when enraged, Taylor made him look like an angry puppy.

That was how it worked, really. Taylor stayed on top because his subordinates feared him. It wasn't fair, but Carmody didn't care about that. As long as he delivered, he got paid like a king and enjoyed the...spoils of war.

So without any options left — especially since that jerk Hughes (the First Sea Lord, not the other asshole) had scornfully rejected his request for amphibious support — Carmody turned to the only avenue of progress he'd been left with — the Gainsborough crossing. A single bridge just west of Gainsborough, many, many miles south of his front lines. Fantastic.

Well, at least the asshole couldn't reach that far.

So, after a week of stalled advance due to his inability to breach the Humber Estuary and adjoining rivers, his forces had finally begun crossing over the river and resuming their march north. Except even that ended up costly.

According to his forward elements, the enemy had militia scattered across the countryside, and their hit-and-run attacks were significantly slowing down his force's march and costing him manpower. And all through this, Hughes hadn't lost a single man after he'd retreated over the bridge!

It was infuriating!

Even his habitual partaking of his spoils of war — pretty young things he'd come across on his march north — hadn't eased his anger. He'd had several men executed already for trumped up charges, though all of them shared one thing in common — they had, in his eyes, failed to breach Hughes' diabolical plans.

Obviously, Carmody's judgment wasn't remotely fair or humane. But then, that wasn't why Taylor had entrusted the eastern approach to him. Rather, Carmody was intelligent, cunning, and brutal — the right mix of skills for Taylor's liking. Unfortunately, that meant his troops more often than not simply followed him out of fear rather than respect — except, of course, for the small cadre of soldiers and officers who directly benefited from his patronage.

Nonetheless, it was a weakness, one that Carmody would pay for with his life.

As he stood in his makeshift office overlooking the Gainsborough bridge crossing, stewing in his own rage at how much Hughes had overcome the disparity in strength, Carmody, and the officers around him, failed to notice the pillars of black smoke coming the horizon beyond the bridge.

Troops could have informed him, true, but everyone knew Carmody was in a foul mood, and no one wanted to be the next victim of the Brigadier's rage. Thus, as the troops outside began feeling uneasy about the ominous pillars of black smoke, the leadership remained oblivious to these sentiments thanks to the very thick, very bullet proof windows.

They didn't have long to wait until they were forcibly educated, however.

Without warning (for them, anyway), the leadership was rocked off its feet as a massive explosion resounded nearby. Picking himself up, Carmody rushed to the window, his eyes growing with horror as he watched the bridge collapse into a ruin, taking with it several tanks, dozens of men, and several artillery pieces with it. Judging from the way it had wrecked, there was little chance of repairing it, too.

He was just about to blame it on the countryside militia, however, when the building three doors up the road suddenly exploded as well, threatening to kick him off his feet again. This time, however, he'd heard the distinct shrill of an incoming artillery round. This hadn't been a random boobytrap — this was a full fledged attack.

Sure enough, a soldier — probably deciding he could either take his chances with Carmody or the battle outside — burst into the room, looking haggard and panicked. "Sir, we're under attack! Orders?"

Carmody's first instinct was to fire a shot into the man's head for being obviously redundant. However, his battle instincts kicked in and he managed to restrain himself. Instead, he motioned towards the soldier, his mind already working hard to calculate the best approach to the situation. "Status report!" he barked.

"Sir, the crossing operation was halfway complete when the attack began," the soldier reported. "We're completely cut off from each other!"

Another blast rocked the room, though this one seemed farther away. A few seconds later, as everyone in the room picked themselves up again, another soldier burst in. "Sir! The rearguard reports coming under heavy attack from the north and eastern city limits!"

Half of his troops cut off? Carmody could deal with that. A surprise attack? That too.

"It's fine, the enemy's presence in this region is laughable!" he assured his officers and the two soldiers. "Organize the troops! Stand your ground and use our superior numbers to crush the enemy!"

And then a series of blasts were heard through the open door — again, a little away from the building they were at. As Carmody half-expected by now, another soldier came in, looking utterly terrified.

"Sir!" the man cried out. "The populace is in revolt! Units everywhere are reporting insurgents picking them off from the rooftops!"

Okay, now Carmody was in trouble, and he knew it.

The basis of his defensive plan had been to bunker down and use a consolidated perimeter to keep the enemy out by taking advantage of the town's buildings as natural higher ground. If insurgents had taken those from him, however, and combined with an external attack, _with only half his forces available to him_, then Carmody knew he'd be hard pressed to keep control of the situation. Even worse, the majority of his armour contingent was already across the river — utterly useless now. Though maybe he could use the artillery pieces to his benefit? He turned towards the window again to see if he could make them out, and sure enough, there were quite a few artillery batteries already setting up on the far bank. He smiled — now those rats would get what was coming to them.

And then that hope evaporated in a series of plumes of fire and smoke.

Explosions, courtesy of artillery shells, riddled the far bank — completely eradicating any threats setting up on that end. And then came the worse part — from across the field, Carmody could see a cloud of dust rising, drawing ever nearer. In a minute, he recognized the outlines of the machines.

Tanks.

Why were there tanks here? Hughes' troops were safely secure in Hull, so why was there a heavy armour contingent here, of all places?

Wait...

No.

"_Humboldt_." the whispered name held such venom that every man in the room instinctively drew away from Carmody.

They had been played. Played from the very beginning by that man in Hull. He'd been so fixated with destroying Hughes that he'd failed to realize that Humboldt had diverted his forces north to intercept him. He was now paying for that mistake.

The worse part was that Carmody knew that Humboldt didn't even have his full force here — with Taylor pushing north hard, he couldn't afford to. Instead, only a fraction of Humboldt's force had been arrayed against him, and on an open field in ideal conditions, Carmody would have won. Unfortunately, his forces were divided, demoralized, and now facing multiple attacks from multiple flanks. The army on the far bank had no centralized leadership, had just lost most of its artillery pieces, and, he was certain, the forward elements had probably also come under attack.

This was a disaster.

Panic bubbled in him as he realized the depths of his mistake. What was the way out? What trick could he pull to extricate himself — yes, himself — from this situation? Maybe if he could grab a jeep and book it for the south...

In the end, his choice was taken from him as several pops sounded out in the room. Before he could even realize what was going on, several individuals appeared from thin air and had already disabled the security contingent, officers, and the three messengers. Carmody himself was beset upon by a lone, brown-haired man who held him up by the neck, a somewhat manic glint in his eyes to couple the triumphant grin.

"Brigadier John Carmody?" he all but purred as he raised his wand to the man's chest and placed it right above Carmody's heart.

"W...are...you?" Carmody choked out as his hands flew to the man's iron grip and tried to save himself.

"Advisor Hughes sends his regards," the mage said, just as the tip of the wand glowed red. "_Defodio_," he whispered, relishing the look on Carmody's face as the spell essentially gouged a hole straight through his chest, obliterating his heart.

With nary a sound, Carmody slumped in the man's grip, which slowly loosened so that the deceased general fell lifelessly to the floor. Observing the Brigadier's body on the floor, the mage nudged it with his foot, just to make sure. Satisfied, he then put away his wand and nodded to his men. "Advisor's orders: no one leaves this room," he ordered. "Do it quick."

Even as their captives began to shout for mercy, the battle outside continued to rage, with Carmody's troops falling into disorder due to the lack of orders.

Within four hours, the battle was over, and Carmody's army — once the biggest threat next to Taylor, was limping its way back to Lincoln, the Northern Territories' territorial integrity once again whole. At least, what was left of it. The half that had been cut off across the river was either captured or destroyed.

Troops from the Northern Territories were quick to swarm the streets of Gainsborough, soon themselves swamped by relieved and liberated villagers who welcomed the soldiers like heroes. Amidst the commotion of the impromptu liberation parade, a different scene played out as Hughes, his aides, and other assorted civil officials and military officers marched into the room where Carmody had breathed his last.

True to his dark nature, Hughes gave no indication of discomfort at the sight of multiple corpses lying about in the room. Standing over their respective kills, in turn, were the Military Mages who had performed the deed, with Neville standing closest to the door with a fist to his heart and his head bowed in greeting.

"Advisor," he greeted. "As you commanded, Carmody and his entourage were executed on the spot," the brunette mage reported. "The plan went off perfectly."

Hughes nodded, somewhat in disinterest, as he carefully stepped over the fallen corpses and walked over to Carmody's body, which was lying, expression still frozen in shock, against the wall beneath the window where he'd seen his army collapse.

Hughes stared down at the body from a foot away, his hands clasped behind his back, ignoring the chatter amongst the officials and officers with the mages. This sack of meat and bones before him had driven the Territories to their nearest point of defeat since the hostilities had started, and he had died just as suddenly.

"With this, Taylor will have no choice but to take over personal command of the entire combat operations," noted his aide as the mage stood off to one side behind him, always checking his digital tablet. "Carmody and Graves were the only competent commanders he had who could keep their forces in check and give us a hard time. Without them, the other commanders are likely to rebel if not kept under his fist."

"How much equipment did we capture?" Hughes asked calmly as he raised his gaze from the dead body to the sights outside the window, where he could see his troops from Hull wave and cheer at Humboldt's armored detachment. Even now, the sound of the odd machine gun or cannon being fired off in celebration still sounded out.

"A massive amount," the aide answered succinctly. "The half that crossed the river were caught completely off guard, and were quick to surrender once they realized no reinforcements were coming. A full regiment of tanks was even surrendered undamaged," the aide reported. "From the sound of it, our lads had little issue with most of the enemy troops, since morale was shot to hell."

Hughes smirked, despite himself. "Of course. One setback after another? It was just a matter of time," Hughes mused before looking back down at his opponent's corpse. "And you obliged, my friend."

Hughes knew there had been an almost zero percent chance of his winning the fight against Carmody if the enemy had managed to capture the Humber Bridge. Even less of a chance if he'd dared challenge the Lightning Brigade commander on open ground. Thus, he had to gamble it all on one thing, and one thing alone — Carmody.

He didn't know the man well, but rumors _had _risen here and there about him. Refugees, in particular, were quick to denounce him due to his preference for...spoils of war, so to speak, and from that sketchy information Hughes had been able to compile a very rudimentary psychological profile. Armed with little else, Hughes decided to take his chances — either way, if it didn't work, they were screwed.

Betting on Carmody's ego to be unable to take so many setbacks, Hughes refused to give open battle and stuck to his positions in Hull while he had the mages booby trap the surrounding areas and rivers, aided by a select number of engineer squads he'd kept on the other side of the river for this express purpose. In doing so, Hughes had all but forced Carmody to act like a mouse in a maze with shifting walls, essentially pushing the enemy general along the paths he _wanted_ Carmody to take, and that path led straight to Gainsborough.

Hughes knew — or rather hypothesized —- that Carmody wouldn't expect an attack so deep in his own captured ground. And he was right — there was no way Hughes could mobilize a force from Hull, retake Barton, and march all the way to Gainsborough in four hours. It was impossible, even for an accomplished logistician and strategist.

So he didn't.

Instead, Hughes called on the populace of Gainsborough and Barton to lay low, and armed them to the teeth even before Carmody had taken Lincoln. That meant that from the moment Carmody had marched north, aiming to take Hull, he had already been walking into a trap.

The moment Carmody had reached Gainsborough, the armed resistance in Barton rose up and swarmed the established defenders just in time for the Hull forces to rush the city via the bridge. Within an hour, the city was lost to Carmody, even before word managed to get out. From then on, Hughes had begun organizing his strike force and then immediately marched for Gainsborough, after having sent Humboldt the signal to initiate the pincer operation. In doing so, Hughes was well aware of the risks he was taking, as Humboldt's march would mean a potential hole being formed in the defensive formations.

Either way, the plan worked perfectly, and Carmody found himself pinned between three fronts. What the enemy general hadn't expected, however, was that Hughes' ultimate culmination of his plan wasn't a three-pronged attack — even split up, Carmody's army was still quite substantial in magnitude. No, the real trick behind Hughes' plan was Carmody himself.

If he could disorient and destabilize Carmody, then he knew the rest of his army would fall apart fairly easily. Thus why the Northern leadership considered the plan a gamble, since failing meant Carmody would recognize their weak position and renew his attacks vigorously.

Instead, Carmody had acted just as they'd hoped — he lost control of his emotions and arrogance and rashly took his army here and there in an attempt to bring down someone he considered inferior. This rashness, in turn, weakened Taylor's tailor-made (pun intended) countermeasures against mage assassination, leaving the enemy leader wide open for Neville's strike.

The rest, as they say, was history.

* * *

**Buxton, Northern Territories, July 4th, 2011...**

Harry smiled as Hughes finished his report, nodding at the kneeling man as he gazed over the commanders he'd assigned to defend the front lines.

Kneeling before him, from left to right, were Swift, Humboldt, and Hughes, and all three had distinguished themselves beyond measure with the campaigns at Hull and Stoke. Curtis and Speirs, while not present, had also heard of the trio's exploits and had sent congratulatory missives for the war heroes, as well as private message for Harry recommending the three for medals.

It was a recommendation Harry was all too glad to agree with.

Not that the war was over — not by a long shot. Taylor, having had his subordinates lose in such a humiliating manner, had renewed his overall offensive with a vengeance, finally pushing the the Northern lines to within a couple dozen miles from Liverpool, Manchester, Buxton, Hull, and Sheffield. From all over, combat reports were coming in by the second as the Chiefs of Staff finally realized the danger their operation was in of failing, with naval strikes along the northern coasts and air raids becoming ever more common.

Sirius, Joshua, William, and James had all voiced their concerns as mages began to die from the strain of keeping the magical shields up against such heavy bombing, and a few cases sprung up where the shields actually broke and a few shells managed to slip in before the holes were patched, causing mass devastation.

Isabella, too, had her concerns, much to Harry's surprise. Working alongside the medical corps, she noted that their supplies were dwindling in the face of increased casualties and incoming refugees. Within a month, she warned, the Northern Territories would be facing a complete shortage of useful medical supplies — particularly now that the European continental countries had chosen to halt any and all exports to the British Isles until the civil war was over. Their only providers, as it was, were the mages of the Order of the Phoenix, and the irony was not lost on anyone.

Thus, while the first two major engagements of the war had ended with the North as the victors, Harry knew there was still much more to come.

* * *

**_Post-AN: Yeah...no, there's not. Next chapter will conclude the Civil War, for all intents and purposes. On the flip side, this means we're entering the Anglo-Mage Conflict, followed swiftly by the European Conquest! So...yay! War...and stuff! Woo!_**

**_Please remember to review!_**


	15. Chapter XIII: The 36 Stratagems

**_AN: As promised, the next chapter is a go! Enjoy! -MB_**

**_PS: As a little bonus, why not include in your reviews which of the aforementioned stratagems you can find?_  
**

* * *

**Hale, Northern Territories, July 25th, 2011...**

"Hurry up! The transport's going to leave us behind!"

Elicia swore as she continued to gather her research material as fast as she could, the sound of explosions still resounding heavily in the air.

After Gainsborough and Stoke, the Northern forces had been granted a few days' breather following the withdrawal of the enemy forces from direct contact. Unfortunately, that truce was just as quickly broken, and Taylor's renewed campaign against the North was twice as relentless and powerful as before.

With one added bonus: the air force and Royal Navy were both now coordinating with Taylor's advance.

The end result was predictable, as the Northern forces were powerfully undermanned to deal with the sort of sheer overwhelming numbers that the Chiefs managed to array, victories or no. Several points along the defensive line had either folded or were completely broken through, and all three major cities of the Northern Territories — Liverpool, Manchester, and Sheffield — were now under siege.

In fact, the only reason she wasn't already in one of the Liverpool bunkers was because she refused to leave her research facility, arguing that letting the enemy get their hands on their research would prove more catastrophic than losing any one city. When the nervous soldiers assigned to guard her with their life had relayed her arguments to Central Command in Buxton, she had been able to hear some of Harry's shouted replies, despite having been in the next room.

In the end, though, she wouldn't budge, and her colleagues — half out of respect, half out of fear — had opted to stay behind with her as long as possible in order to safeguard and/or transport away any and all research material.

Already, despite being a week into the evacuation, there were still a few things left to spirit away from the research facility, and every day that passed, the guards became ever so much more nervous, especially as the sounds of explosions grew nearer.

"Come on, Elicia, we've got to _go_!" urged a fellow lab tech as he held the door open with his body, a box of assorted materials in his hands. "The guards are going nuts about the delay!"

"Give me a second, damnit!" she hissed back as she typed away at lightning speed at her workstation, trying to set up the security parameters for a myriad of files as fast as she could. "This isn't some parlor trick, you know!"

Another explosion resounded then, shaking the room and causing a bit of dust to fall from the ceiling. Outside the room, they could see the odd researcher — usually with arms loaded with boxes — dash towards the exit, just as a group of guardsmen rushed the other way. All of them looked pale and nervous, despite attempts to seem impassive.

"Something's going on," the lab tech noted nervously. "Did you see those guys? Something's wrong."

"Will you shut up and let me work?" Elicia rebuked the man as she continued typing as fast as she could. She was unwilling to admit it out loud, but she was terrified of her current situation. She'd never lived through a war before, and the fact that everything seemed to be going straight to hell had her nerves on edge. "They're probably just going to get whoever's still behind!"

Both researchers knew that to be a lie, however. If that had been true, the guardsmen would've made a stop in their lab and urged them to flee. Since they hadn't, however, that meant there was something bigger at stake.

Another blast. Elicia's colleague was all but trembling like a leaf now.

"God _damnit_, Elicia, let's _go_!" he shouted.

The sound of keys clacking answered him for a few seconds before Elicia pressed the Enter key with finality. "There!" she announced as she jumped to her feet and grabbed the nearest box of materials. "Alright, let's move!"

Her colleague sighed in relief as he allowed her to run out the door before following. Unfortunately, they only managed to run about ten meters before the whole building shook from a suspiciously loud explosion.

Then the lights went out, replaced with red alarm lights.

"Oh _shite_, they've broken into the building!" the lab tech cried out, recognizing the situation for what it was.

Silently agreeing, Elicia was nonetheless determined not to panic. Panicking, Harry told her, killed more people than anything else in a crisis situation. Better to remain calm and think things through.

"That sounded like it came from the south labs," she judged calmly as she looked towards where the guardsmen had run earlier. "The guardsmen were headed there, remember?" she reminded her colleague. "We should be good if we head straight for the northern exit."

And then the sound of gunfire became very, _very_ obvious. Thankfully, not from the north, but from the south.

"Sounds like the lads are getting pushed back," Elicia guessed before fixing her colleague with a glare that brooked no protest. "Come on, we've got to get to the transports waiting at the north end!"

Running down the once-pristine and sterile hallways of the large research complex, Elicia and her colleague worked hard to outrun the sound of agonized shouting and gunfire as they raced for the exit, hoping the enemy hadn't yet encircled the lab. On their way, they bore witness to many more scientists finishing up their packing or soldiers manhandling reluctant scientists out of their labs. On all their faces, Elicia could easily read the great fear she felt herself.

Hale was supposed to be safe — that had been the point of establishing the research complex there, rather than in Liverpool proper. Furthermore, it was close enough to the Northern capital so as to make it easily accessible, and the fact that it resided on the northern bank of the River Mersey meant that, short of losing the Kingsway and Queensway tunnels, the area ought to have been secure.

How little they'd esteemed Taylor's rage.

Unlike both Graves and Carmody, Taylor had no moral issue with sending wave after wave of his troops across the estuaries, despite heavy resistance from the opposite banks. Certainly, thousands of his troops died in the crossing, but their sheer numbers eventually all but overwhelmed the defenders, routing the beleaguered Northern troops back towards Liverpool or Manchester.

Elicia gave a small cry as she stumbled into a wall roughly, having been shaken off balance by another blast — this one uncomfortably close by. Her colleague, however, didn't stay behind to help — his nerves were too far shot at this point. Instead, she was left alone as the man sped down the hallway, all but weeping in hysteric fear.

He wasn't the only one. Soldier or lab tech, most people brushed past her without a second thought, too concerned with saving their own lives. It wasn't that she didn't understand this, but Elicia nonetheless felt a little disappointed at the lack of chivalry everyone was displaying.

Slowly, she tried to get up from the floor, but winced as a sharp pain shot through her leg. A twisted ankle.

"Of all the unlucky..." she hissed as she observed her bruised ankle. The sounds of a fire fight grew ever closer. Elicia swore. There was no way she could outrun the attackers with a twisted ankle, and she knew it.

Even worse, she knew that if the attackers found out who she was, she'd be in big trouble. Even without her relationship with Harry, she was nonetheless the foremost scientist of the Northern Territories in matters of energy production and magical-mechanical hybridization. If Taylor wanted _anyone_ alive from the campaign, it was her.

Grunting in exertion, Elicia slowly got to her feet again, this time trying to put as little pressure on her bruised foot as she could. She glanced down at the box of materials — it was pointless trying to carry it at this point; she'd need to focus mainly on getting out of the facility.

Limping forward at an abysmal rate, Elicia felt her face slowly drench itself with sweat as pain constantly reminded her of her injury, despite attempts to mitigate the amount of pressure she put on it. Cries of fighting were becoming more obvious now, and the trail of evacuating scientists and soldiers had slowly whittled to a halt. Even as she gazed forward, unrelenting in her slow advance, she could see no more persons anywhere. The odd sheet of paper or broken vials lay scattered across the once pristine hallways, but other than that she was alone.

Elicia cursed again. Why hadn't she listened? Why hadn't she just paid attention to Harry's orders and left when the incursion began? If she'd done so, she'd be in Liverpool by now, tucked away safe and sound in some reinforced bunker, probably.

Or, perhaps even better, she'd be with Harry at Buxton.

Another fresh burst of pain shot from her ankle, and Elicia whimpered loudly, hot tears forming at the corner of her eyes. She cursed her stubbornness, and Taylor's warmongering. She cursed her desire to become a scientist, and she cursed Harry for being so ambitious.

And all at once, she shamed herself mentally for even thinking like that.

She knew this wasn't about Harry, or her, or even Taylor. This was bigger than all of them. This was a competition for power, and she'd picked her side. It wasn't anyone's fault that she was now stuck by herself in a facility under attack — it was just bad luck she'd fallen the wrong way.

Gritting her teeth and glaring at the seemingly interminable hallway, she trudged ahead, keeping a hand on the wall as she limped forward. Even if the enemy came, she wouldn't wait for them. If they wanted to catch her or kill her, they'd have to chase her to the bitter end.

And then she heard it — the sound of boots stomping on ceramic.

"There! Another one! Seize her!"

Limping a little faster now, all the while feeling like her foot was being grounded into mush, Elicia refused to give her would-be captors the satisfaction of her willful surrender.

"Halt and surrender!"

"Bite me!" she yelled back as she kept going stubbornly, even as the boots came closer. Within seconds, she felt strong arms violently grasp at her, managing to pin her arms and take hold of her waist.

Then, roughly, she was thrown to the floor, her twisted ankle showing her she'd severely underestimated how much pain it could cause her even now.

Rolling onto her back, she propped herself up slightly with her arms and glared at her captors, her appearance completely disheveled but her expression one of stubborn defiance. "I won't come quietly!" she yelled before turning on the floor and slowly crawling her way towards the exit again. Within a second, a boot was slammed into her back and she fell flat on her stomach, feeling a whole new realm of pain.

Then the knife came.

Apparently fed up with her resistance, or the prolonged fighting they'd had to go through to get this far, or a combination of both; one of the soldiers stabbed into her left hand with such strength that it broke the ceramic tile beneath it.

She roared with pain.

"Quiet down, you bitch!" the same soldier yelled back as he kicked her in the side, further prolonging her visit to new realms of pain. "You think that hurts? I'll show you hurt!"

Elicia felt the wind get sucked out of her lungs as the man launched another kick, this one aimed at her solar plexus. Even worse, she then felt the urge to throw up, and her digestive system complied, soon soiling the floor near her face.

"Disgusting bitch," the soldier sneered, to the laughter of his compatriots. He bent down then and grabbed her roughly by the hair, eliciting a whimper from his victim. "My mate Tommy got killed by you disgusting freak lovers!" he hissed close to her face. "So I'm going to kill every last one of you fucking mage humpers!"

He threw back his fist then, and violently slammed it into Elicia's face, almost knocking her out in one hit. Instead, she could only whimper even more as she felt her nose break.

"Oi, oi," another soldier commented then, looking distinctly disinterested with the proceedings but nonetheless holding up her identification card. "This one's important," he noted with boredom. "Best if we get her to the captain alive like, yeah?"

Elicia's torturer sneered, but nonetheless relented, though he maintained a sick smile. "Fine. No rule against having a little fun, though, is there?" he said wickedly, and Elicia felt a chill run down her spine. Surely they didn't mean to...?

She began to thrash about in his grip, weakly trying to hit at him or kick him in order for him to let her go. Predictably, nothing worked. Between her injuries and his strength, her struggle was a predetermined failure.

The soldiers, meanwhile, laughed at her resistance, further inciting her hatred of them. How could they stand there and mock her plight? Where was their humanity? Their decency?

Intellectually, she knew not all soldiers were like this. She'd met quite a few in the Northern forces who were kind, simple souls who simply fought to defend their homes. It was just her luck that she'd come across the trash of the enemy forces.

"Filthy bastards," she hissed, feeling her face get wracked with pain just from talking.

She was rewarded for her insult with another blow to her stomach, making her feel like she was being drowned.

"Shut up, whore," hissed her captor as he grabbed her by the throat and groped for her blouse. "We've all been blue balled by this campaign, and you're going to have the honor of relieving us of all that tension!"

"I rather think not."

A flash blinded everyone in the hallway then, and Elicia could only feel as she was ripped away from the soldier's grip by strong arms circled around her waist. When her vision returned, she could slowly make out that she was in the arms of a woman, her lithe figure clothed in the blue uniform of the Military Mages. Standing in front of them, however, were the backs of three similarly uniformed people, their bodily shape telling her these were men.

The central one, she noted, was trembling — she guessed, with rage.

"Are you alright?" asked the woman softly, and in a flash of recognition, Elicia identified her rescuer as Astoria, one of the maid staff at Buxton. Since when had the blonde serving girl been a mage? For that matter, since when was she a _Military _Mage?

She blinked as she heard Astoria repeat her question worriedly, and slowly nodded. "Should...be fine..." she managed to get out, feeling ashamed of her appearance all of a sudden. Between the forced out vomit and drool and blood, she must've looked horrendous.

"Astoria, get her out of here," the central man ordered, and Elicia instantly recognized that voice. He was here! He was here to get _her!_

Elicia felt her heart soar as she processed this information. She had hoped, against all odds, that someone would save her — someone she knew had other duties, but never stopped telling her how much she meant to him. The one man she would have gladly given her life for, and loved with all her heart and soul.

A weepy smile grew on her relieved face as she raised a trembling hand towards the man. "H-Harry..."

The leader of the Military Mages and the Northern Territories glanced back at her and gave her a comforting, if serious smile. "Don't worry, Ellie," he told her before returning his attention to the doomed soldiers before him, his expression growing dark and enraged, and sparks of magic appearing at his fingertips. "Everything's going to be fine now."

* * *

**Liverpool, Northern Territories, July 30th, 2011...**

"How is she?"

Harry looked up to see his father and mother at the door of the hospital room. He glanced at the sleeping form of his beloved and then looked down again, feeling ashamed of his failure to protect her.

"She'll recover," he told them blandly. "A few broken bones, traumatized muscles and organs, and a twisted ankle that got made worse with the beatings."

Five days had passed since Elicia had come the closest she'd ever been to death. Harry, despite having given strict orders for a squad of soldiers to protect Elicia at all costs, had nonetheless been too anxious to sit around in Buxton and taken a couple of elite Military Mages under his personal command to assist in her rescue. His decision, in the end, spared Elicia from further horrors, though he still blamed himself for not having made her evacuate from Hale much earlier.

On the bright side, the soldiers who'd done this to her had been incinerated to such an extent that not even their ashes remained. Then Harry had taken the battle to the invading enemy personally and single-handedly caused the death of at least two full regiments that had been landing their troops on the riverbank.

While Pyrrhic in nature, his actions had nonetheless managed to secure a small victory against Taylor, fortunately meaning that the invasion of the northern bank of the Mersey River was stalled for now.

None of that, however, compared with the rage he felt towards himself, and it showed by how tightly he gripped his hands, managing to break skin.

Sighing, Lily walked towards her eldest son and forced his hands apart, looking at him exasperatedly and bringing out her wand to heal his fresh wounds. "It won't do her any good for you to hurt yourself, love," she comforted him. "I'm sure she appreciates your presence alone."

"I should've been more stubborn," he insisted as he let his mother heal his hands. "I should've made her leave Hale the moment Taylor began his offensive."

"Yes, you should have," agreed James as he stood by Elicia's bed, looking sadly down at his would-be daughter-in-law. "But you didn't, and it's in the past. She's alive and with us, now, and that's all that matters."

Harry's shoulders slumped at the half-hearted form of comfort his father offered, though Lily smiled at him then. "You father's right, Harry," she told him. "There's no sense in dwelling on this."

"You didn't see what those animals were about to do to her," he hissed angrily as the memories flooded his mind. "They were...were..." such was his rage that he couldn't even vocalize it. Just thinking about it made him want to go on another rampage.

Lily put a stop to that, however, by holding his hands within her own, her healing done, and giving them a reassuring squeeze. "Harry, we know," she told him softly. "But you managed to stop them, and I'll promise you here and now she loves you all the more for it. If you really want to make it up to her, though, don't get consumed with rage," she chastised him gently. "It'll only make her sad."

Harry bowed his head, showing no indication that he'd heard his mother's words. Nonetheless, a few seconds later, she felt moisture hit her hands, and she knew then her son was crying.

"What...should I do?" he half-asked, half pleaded. He'd never come so close to losing Elicia, and the mere thought of it had nearly broken him.

James walked over to his son and wife then, looking down at his son with the most serious look he could muster. "Isn't it obvious?" he asked rhetorically, causing his son to look up, eyes red from crying.

"Win."

Hours later, that simple pronouncement still rang deeply in Harry's head, well after his parents had left him with Elicia. Friends, colleagues, and acquaintances all came to visit in the meantime, but Harry was still and silent for most of these visits, other than granting the polite greeting and odd occasion of small-talk.

He was well aware of the fact that he couldn't really afford to be here with his beloved, but Harry honestly didn't care. The people he'd left in charge at Buxton were all competent enough to hold the line while he attended to this small personal matter. If they couldn't, they knew to call up Hughes or Curtis or any number of other veteran military officers who _were_ competent.

"So, it's true."

Harry looked up from Elicia's resting body towards the entrance, where the owner of that familiar voice stood, his expression neutral.

"John," Harry greeted his estranged best friend with some surprise. He hadn't seen hide or hair of his childhood companion since...almost since he'd been released from government custody! "What're you doing here?" he asked, though immediately chided himself for asking. "Sorry, stupid me," he interrupted John's no doubt glib response.

The balding man before him nodded once as he neared Elicia's bedside and simply stared down at her.

"It's funny," he remarked after a pregnant pause. "I'd been telling Ellie for months now that we hadn't seen each other," he reminisced. "And it takes a war and her getting assaulted to get us in the same room."

Harry stared at his friend for a moment before lowering his head, placing his hands on the back of it, and chuckling. "Yeah..." he agreed sadly.

"You know I blame you for this," John added lightly, and Harry didn't need to see to know that John's hands were curled into tight fists.

"Yeah...so do I."

"She's a scientist. What was she doing there?"

Harry chuckled mirthlessly. "She was stubborn. Wouldn't listen when I ordered her to leave," he explained. "Insisted she had a duty to stay behind and secure as much information as she could, since she was Director of the facility."

"Damn fool girl," John said fondly as he brushed some of Elicia's blond hair from her face. "Always the overachiever."

Another pause.

"What happened to the ones who did this?"

"Dead."

"How dead?"

"There aren't even ashes left."

"That's pretty dead," John remarked idly.

"I was pretty mad," Harry noted.

Both men paused again, before beginning to chuckle. Eventually, even that was reduced to another pause.

"Francis..." John started, using Harry's assumed identity. At least he kept himself consistent. "Ellie deserves better than this."

"You think I don't know that?" Harry shot back.

"I don't mean being hospitalized, you berk," John calmly swept aside Harry's question. "I mean this situation in general. This limbo you two have got going for you. It's not healthy, and I guarantee you she's not happy."

A pause.

"She tells me otherwise," Harry pointed out.

"Because she loves you, you boneheaded tosser," his friend pointed out. "She'd rather have a little of you than none, so of course she plays along. But it's not what she wants, not really."

"We're in the middle of a war, John — being associated with me...it's risky, if not lethal," Harry argued. "This way, the enemy never aims for her in order to get at me."

"No, instead they aim at her for being a brilliant scientist," John deadpanned as he motioned towards Elicia's resting body. "Face it, mate, she's at risk no matter what you do."

"And what do _you_ want me to do?" snarked Harry. "Marry her?"

"Yes."

The simple answer caught Harry offguard. "What?" he asked, dumbfounded. "Are you barking _mad_? She'd have assassins after her bloody head the very same day!"

"Which is why you'd protect her, no?" John pointed out as he stroked the back of Ellie's right hand. "She adores you, and you feel the same way about her. I've known you two since we were all wee lads and lasses," he reminded Harry. "Even though you two were like cats and dogs, any idiot could've seen the way you looked at each other after Third Year."

Harry remained silent.

"You think the people who practically worship you would still do so if they knew you were stringing along your childhood flame?" John asked pragmatically. "That the reason you're unattached is because you're still banging your ex?"

"Don't talk about her that way, John, it's beneath you," Harry stated through gritted teeth.

"Why not? Am I not right?" John snarked. "And what happens when your followers ask for an heir? Will he be a bastard, to boot?"

Slam.

Practically for the first time since they'd known each other, Harry's patience with John had finally run out. Call it a mixture of concern and impotent rage, fueled by despair over what nearly happened to Elicia, but Harry's war-tempered patience had finally collapsed. The result lay in John now being held up against the wall, Harry's forearm pressed against the man's collarbone and a fire-cloaked fist raised to do real harm to his old friend.

"Enough," he hissed, enraged. Even furious, he took great care not to wake Elicia.

"Struck a nerve, did I?" John asked with a feeble smile and weak laughter before giving Harry a stern gaze. "You know I'm right. You know that's what they'll say. You come across as this great, big war hero and national founding father, but you can't even keep your own affairs in order," he chided. "Harry...How can you create a country, when you can't even make yourself happy?"

Harry froze as John's chiding words reached him, the cloak of fire around his fist dissipating and the pressure he kept against John's collarbone disappearing as he took a few steps back, staring at his friend.

Was John right? Was he really just denying himself for the sake of doing so? He glanced back at Elicia. She made him happy — there was no question about that. She was lively, intelligent, ambitious, and caring. When he was with her, he could forget the politics, the war...he could just dream, like they had when they were mere teens.

As all these thoughts raced in his mind, Harry never noticed his friend had used his real name for the first time ever.

* * *

**Buxton, Northern Territories, August 15th, 2011...**

Vengeance is a great motivator.

Though the 31st of July was declared a holiday for the besieged Territories due to it being Harry's birthday — whom everyone pretty much considered the founder of the beleaguered nation — it came and went for Harry like just another day, despite the festivities. Rather, he took his father's words at the hospital to heart, working like a man possessed in order to prepare everything for the day when he would crush the Chiefs of Staff.

The first thing he did, with excellent results, was unleash the Military Mages at long last, sending them on campaigns of mass destruction against the Royal Navy ships bombarding the coastline. Earlier, the decision to do so had been voted down, on account that the operation was deemed too risky, given that a faulty step could end up having the mages being killed by overwhelming firepower. With bloody vengeance on his mind, however, Harry had no problem sending the Mages to wreck havoc on the First Sea Lord's forces.

The results were staggering.

Approaching the ships via brooms charmed to be invisible during the middle of the night, the mage strike teams boarded the ships and wrecked merry hell on the defenders, with Neville himself claiming five ship captains killed. The chaos grew only worse from then on as Northern crews were ferried onto the ships and they, in turn, turned the guns around and fired on the ship's former allies.

Unfortunately, while boarding ships and raising hell on them was, on the whole, tactically easy, it didn't solve another problem Harry had — the air.

With the limited Air Force they had in their possession, the Northern Territories never once won a single engagement in the air for supremacy of the skies. This, in turn, meant heavy air support for the assaulting infantry under Taylor's command. Even without naval support, this factor — which had worked well with the infantry to disable most of the ground-based anti-air countermeasures — had managed to force the defending forces to bunker down either in the city shields or in their trenches, where anti-air emplacements were still functioning.

It also meant there was no way the North could win, as long as the Chiefs had undisputed command of the skies.

"Seven more convoys were destroyed in the past three days," droned out Xeno as he reported before Harry, Speirs, and Curtis — the latter two of which were in attendance via video link. "Furthermore, there have been incursions sighted in several of the outlying towns near Manchester, Liverpool, Sheffield, Newcastle, and Carlisle. Darlington has fallen to enemy hands," he added then before flipping the page.

The last point he made was perhaps the most significant loss the North had suffered since the battle began. While not a major city, Darlington was a key strategic point along the logistical route between Newcastle and the southern cities. Losing it meant having to go around via Carlisle, thereby making it much harder to keep up the flow of supplies.

"Any good news?" grumbled Speirs.

Xeno ignored the comment and kept reading. "Casualty tally of the past five days of engagements stands at 2,000 killed and thrice that in injuries," he continued. "Furthermore, we have lost the research facility at Hale, though the FCE plant is still within our control."

"With all the arrangements we made for it, it damn well better be," Curtis grumbled in turn. "As for Darlington, I have no excuse. The bastards caught us off guard," she added apologetically. "I'm sorry."

"Every front's been feeling the pressure, Curtis," Speirs noted ironically, considering his was the only front _not_ engaged in battle. "We do what we can, that's the most we can ask for."

"Yet at this rate, we _will_ lose," Harry pointed out to his two colleagues. "The air support Taylor is receiving is killing us, and it makes it nigh impossible to retake what lands they've taken. We need a way to bring those planes _down_."

"With respect, we've tried everything," Speirs pointed out. "Our Air Force can't handle that many bogeys, and our emplacements are being overwhelmed. There's not much more we can do."

Xeno, who'd been silently listening in, chose that moment to clear his throat. Once he got the attention of the military triumvirate, he bowed his head in respect. "With respect to General Speirs, that's not exactly true," he stated calmly.

"Oh? You have a plan, Xeno?" asked Harry, curious what his intelligence chief could come up with.

"Indeed so," Xeno answered. "As you are all aware, pertinent to a previous decision we made with Miss Weasley, we have sent a troop of our soldiers north of the Babylon Wall to aid them in their war with the Death Eaters."

"Are you suggesting calling them back?" Harry asked, mulling over such a course of action. Two thousand elites would certainly replenish their most recent losses. Even so, however, they'd be little more than that — replenishing troops.

Xeno, however, shook his head. "No," he answered firmly. "Rather, I would propose we...shall we say, _charge_ them for the use of these troops."

"We already are," Speirs pointed out. "I've got mass graves to prove it."

"Spies notwithstanding," Xeno soldiered on, "the mages have had it easy, thus far. We haven't asked much of them, and yet I believe they could be of assistance in our fight against the Chiefs."

"What could they do that our Military Mages can't?" demanded Curtis, feeling a little afronted.

Xeno raised his hands placatingly. "It's not a matter of what they can _do_, General, but what they _have_," he corrected.

"Explain," ordered Harry.

Xeno nodded in acquiescence. "Though our agreement with Miss Weasley's faction forced her to divulge the names of each and every one of her spies in the Territories, we have not been bound by the same terms," he reminded the trio. "This has been fortunate, since it means our own spy network within the Order of the Phoenix is still working and transmitting information to us. Some of this information, in turn, has proven very interesting."

"Spit it out, already," grumbled Speirs. "In case you haven't noticed, there's a bloody war going on."

"Very well," Xeno acquiesced again. "Very simply, they have designed a bomb."

Silence.

"That's it?" asked Curtis dubiously. "A bomb? Why should we care? It's not like we don't have our own stockpile of explosives!"

Speirs grunted in agreement with Curtis, while Harry gave Xeno a somewhat disappointed look, having expected better.

"It's not just any bomb, General Curtis," Xeno countered, undeterred. "This...is a magical bomb."

Now he had their attention.

"A..._what_?" breathed Harry, eyes wide.

"A magical bomb," Xeno repeated. "The brainchild of Miss Weasley's brother, if my intelligence is correct. Whereas our bombs are made with explosives, this one attacks with magic. It works like any other bomb, except for one thing."

"A magical backlash," Harry theorized, causing Xeno to nod in confirmation. "That's...some weapon."

"Undetectable, too, given the lack of typical explosives," Xeno added. "The enemy would never be able to find it if we smuggled it in."

"What's to stop them from using it on us?" asked Speirs worriedly. He was all for winning, but not if it shot them in the foot, too.

"There is only one prototype in existence," Xeno stated. "And the information regarding the bomb's manufacturing process is a highly classified secret. My sources were barely able to obtain information about it's mere existence," he pointed out. "And only Miss Weasley's brother knows how to build them."

"So ask for the bomb to be tested against the Air Force, and then...what? Assassinate the elder Weasley?" asked Curtis, eyes narrowed.

Xeno shrugged. "It is merely a suggestion, General."

"It's a good plan," Harry opined. "Even if we don't get all of their Air Force, if we can detonate the bomb at just one major airfield, it'll put a dent into their operations. Maybe long enough to allow us to launch an offensive to retake lost land," he theorized.

"Why haven't they used it already if it's so effective?" questioned Curtis. "Nations at war don't stockpile weapons — they use them."

"Perhaps our entry into the war has allowed Miss Weasley's superiors to recant their decision to use it," Xeno proposed. "Or perhaps they were unwilling to use it against fellow mages. Perhaps it has additional negative effects on mages?"

"Whatever the reason is, it's to our benefit," Harry interjected firmly. "We need something to knock those birds out of the air, and this is it. Taylor is already practically waltzing through our territory, and the Air Force is what's letting him do so. If that goes away, we can deal with Taylor."

Silence permeated the room as Harry wound down, his two colleagues and intelligence chief all mulling over the argument.

"Very well," Xeno spoke up then. "I shall being preparations for talks to be held with Miss Weasley."

* * *

**Buxton, Northern Territories, August 17th, 2011...**

"I have to say, this is a first," Ginny mentioned ironically as she smiled at the triumvirs wryly. "Usually, _I'm_ the one who has to ask for a meeting."

"We believe our previous deal regarding the troops may be coming to an end," Joshua, who'd been called back to Buxton for this emergency meeting and agreed with Xeno's course of action, started smoothly. "Unfortunately, the losses in this latest phase of the war has caused us to reevaluate the need to have two thousand troops north of the Babylon Wall."

Ginny's good mood evaporated there, and her eyes narrowed dangerously at the pronouncement. "What?" she asked neutrally. "We had a deal — a magically _binding_ deal."

"One that did not guarantee that our troops would have to stay in Scotland until you achieved victory," Joshua countered calmly, having been used to dealing with such complex business arrangements and contracts before. "If you had wanted the troops there for that long, then you should have been more specific."

Ginny growled. "You _are_ aware of how important those troops are to our efforts, right?" she half-asked, half-demanded. "To pull them back now would severely hamper our efforts to secure victory over the Death Eaters — _your enemies too_."

"And yet they have launched not a single attack against the Babylon Wall since your little civil war started," Joshua riposted with a wry smile. "As a matter of fact, they seem more preoccupied with you than with us. I'm sure if our men were pulled back, we wouldn't feel much of a backlash for some time. Time we can use to prepare."

"So that's it?" asked Ginny angrily as she stood up. "You get the names of every spy in your territories, and we get the shaft?" she snapped.

"It's unfortunate, but the Territories are in crisis right now, and we have no choice," Joshua stated with a shrug. "All of our options have been depleted, and I'm afraid two thousand elites could make the difference in our battles with the Chiefs. Very little else can, after all."

And now she got it. Ginny's eyes narrowed at Joshua's explanation, finally seeing it for what it was. A demand for equivalent exchange for continued use of the elite troops.

"What do you want?" she asked sharply as she sat back down, her two escorts stiffening.

"You have in your faction's possession an artifact of incredible value to us," Joshua said with a smile. "A bomb, as a matter of fact — don't deny it, we've already confirmed it."

"You've also confirmed you have spies in our organization," Ginny grouched with a raised eyebrow.

Joshua shrugged. "If you ever thought differently, I imagine our respect for you would decrease, Miss Weasley," he said, completely unapologetic. "Regardless, we want that bomb."

Ginny was silent as she mulled over the demand, knowing she had to tread carefully here. On the one hand, that bomb was her brother's brainchild and an equalizer if the Northern troops were ever pulled out. It was, amongst her faction, commonly referred to (amongst those in the know) as Plan B. The elite troops of the North, however, were doing a fantastic job in beating back the Death Eater masses, already spearheading the recapture of thousands of acres of lost land.

In the end, she had to weigh the interests of her faction, and upon quiet contemplation, she finally reached her decision. She nodded at Joshua.

"Very well. The bomb for the troops."

"And the destruction of the plans for the bomb," Speirs cut in then, narrowing his eyes at the pretty redheaded witch.

"Wha —" Joshua was about to protest, having not been consulted about this, but Ginny outpaced him.

"Deal," she agreed. Unfortunately for her, this merely served to raise the suspicions of most of the Northern leadership, though they remained silent — for now grateful to have acquired what could very well be their salvation. "I can get it here within an hour."

If the Northern leadership had been suspicious before, they were positively alarmed now. "So fast?" asked Curtis dubiously. After all, bombs usually required a lot of careful handling and transportation just to be moved from point A to B. That this bomb could be theirs in an hour, while great news in and of itself, also meant it had long since been ready to be moved.

Ginny, however, nodded nonetheless. "Prior to our initial agreement, we had begun considering deploying the bomb against the Death Eaters," she explained smoothly. "Fortunately, however, you have given us another option. Still, the bomb has remained prepared for deployment ever since then."

That both confirmed and assuaged the triumvirate's fears, though Joshua remained a little sceptical — and not a little miffed that Speirs had interrupted his carefully thought out negotiation strategy.

"Very well," he inserted himself back into the conversation, drawing Ginny's attention back to him. "Then under these terms, we accept this amendment to the initial deal between our two parties."

It sounded pompous — and it probably was — but while Speirs and Curtis could roll their eyes at Warwick, Harry gave a small smile at the aristocrat's back, respecting the man for what he'd just done. By speaking out and accepting the deal on behalf of the triumvirate, he reminded everyone — and particularly Harry — that he, too, was an integral part of the government. More importantly, that _he_ was in charge of foreign affairs, and could not be easily swept aside.

Ginny, too, seemed to understand the power politics at play here, and gave a smile of acquiescence. "And I, as representative of my faction, accept this amendment as well," she added with a slight nod of her head.

* * *

**Buxton, Northern Territories, August 19th, 2011...**

Neville was standing, shocked, before the gathered three military leaders of the Northern Territories.

Just a moment ago, he'd all but stormed into the room, angry to have been pulled from active duty for no explained reason. Though he had kept himself from shouting and demanding answers from his superiors, Neville had never expected to have such a bombshell dropped on him.

More specifically, to have Ginny Weasley, of all people, presented to him.

Sitting there, to one side of the raised dais where Harry sat and the screens transmitting Curtis and Speirs were placed at his sides, was the smiling, fiery redhead who'd once been considered a rising star amongst the Aurors — thought to eventually have been able to overcome his own records.

He hadn't seen her at all since he'd been arrested and then busted out. To be frank, he hadn't even expected to see her again in this lifetime!

"What is the meaning of this?" he finally asked, ignoring the amused look on Ginny's face as he turned his attention to Harry. "Why is a traitor here?"

"Miss Weasley and the Territories have come to an agreement, Captain Longbottom," Speirs answered for Harry, his tone clipped and reproaching. "Her faction has been kind enough to agree to a deal that may see us win this war."

"We're doing fine on our own!" Neville protested."We've already pushed back the Royal Navy and held the line with our ground forces! Why involve a third party?"

"Because we're losing, Captain — make no mistake about that," Curtis weighed in, a deep frown marking her face. "Though we've scored some decisive victories, every point along our front lines has come under heavy siege, and elements of the enemy have begun besieging our main cities. We are in dire need of a game changer, and this is it."

"By allying with the very people who drove us to this point?" Neville protested regardless, sweeping his arm as he spoke. "If it hadn't been for their stubbornness, this whole war might've been prevented!"

"Perhaps," agreed Harry with a short nod. "However, they have something we need, and we must adhere to reality. If they can help us secure victory, we must be prepared to deal."

Neville wanted to argue, but he knew better than to question Harry. Speirs? Curtis? He had no problem there — they weren't the people he owed his life to. Harry, however, was the man he'd pledged loyalty to, and he was a man who kept to his oath.

Clicking his tongue angrily, he nonetheless quieted down. "Tch...Fine," he finally conceded. "How can I be of service?"

As Harry briefed Neville on the situation, Ginny couldn't help but marvel at how quickly Neville had backed down once Harry had weighed in. She knew she sounded like a scratched record, but she couldn't help feeling admiration for the raven haired leader and the way he used people. Neither Curtis nor Speirs had been able to tame Neville, but Potter had done so with only a few words. If she had to guess, the reason the two were even considered part of the triumvirate was because Potter allowed it. If he'd truly wanted to consolidate his power, she had little doubts they would be able to stop him.

She knew her colleagues thought her obsessed with the man, and if she was truly honest...she was. Not romantically so, of course, but rather intellectually. He was, in a word, fascinating, and _that_ was an understatement. The way he went from being no one to becoming the leader of a rising nation was absolutely _gobsmacking_. Even though he could've had an easy life as a celebrity in the magical world, he'd repudiated it in favour of forging his own legacy, and he'd delivered — the world would _never_ go back to what it was prior to Potter's rise.

She blinked herself back into consciousness of the world around her as Potter finished briefing Neville, who, despite looking mutinous, was nodding along.

"Understood," he agreed as Harry winded down. "Infiltrate, set up the bomb, exfiltrate. Sounds simple."

"Don't get cocky," Harry warned. "This is a critical operation to our war effort. If it succeeds, we may be able to win this war."

Neville nodded again. "I understand," he stated laconically. "So which of the airfields are we to target?"

Harry was just about to answer him when Ginny interrupted, raising a hand and giving a friendly smile. "With respect, I believe targeting an airfield would be a mistake," she said pleasantly.

All eyes turned to her, and not many were friendly.

"Explain," Harry said after a moment of contemplation.

"If I understand the situation right, and the way you Muggles order your troops, no one airbase can be considered the _main_ base, right?" she asked.

"Correct," Harry answered calmly. "Nonetheless, some bases will have more forces than others, and we intend to strike at the one with the most."

"Would that suffice in balancing the odds back into your favour?" Ginny asked with a wry smile.

The triumvirs needn't say anything — their silence was enough for Ginny to know the answer.

"I thought as much," she said. "What you need is to bring down their air force to sufficient numbers that you can deal with them on even ground."

"And you would happen to know how?" sneered Speirs.

Ginny ignored the rude tone he used and nodded. "I do, as a matter of fact," she said with a winning smile, surprising everyone in the room. "Even if I'm just a mage, I can see you Muggles use the same aerial strategies we do. Quite simply, you need to strike at them where they will be at their highest concentration."

"There is no such base," Curtis reminded her with a scowl.

"I wasn't referring to a base," Ginny countered pleasantly before pointing up. "I meant the sky."

SIlence permeated the room.

"That...is a bold statement, Miss Weasley," Harry stated slowly.

"Bold? More like barking!" Speirs interjected with a derisive smile. "Even if we could get _close_ to such a concentration of airborne fighters, how on _earth_ would we manage to get them all in the explosive blast?"

"...who says we should?" asked Neville then, to everyone's surprise. The brown-haired warrior was standing there, chin cupped pensively as he thought through Ginny's proposal. "If I understand things correctly, this bomb of theirs," he nudged his head in Ginny's direction, "releases an after-blast shockwave of magical energy, right?"

"Correct," Ginny confirmed with a pleased smile, glad someone had grasped on her idea.

"Then the situation is clear — we have to detonate the bomb at a time and place where the shockwave will hit the majority of the airborne Air Force," he deduced.

Harry, for his part, was pleased with Neville's reasoning. He had deduced the meaning behind Ginny's plan, and had in fact thought of it once or twice, but the fact that Neville had, too, reached it — without help — served to buoy the hopes he placed on his subordinates. His colleagues, meanwhile, were quick to jump on the idea, now that it had been laid out plainly.

"But is there such a time and place?" asked Speirs then, after both he and Curtis had praised Neville for figuring out the witch's plan. "It's not like we can just ask Thompson to field his entire air force on our schedule."

"We don't need to," Harry pointed out. "Thompson is arrogant, remember? Ever since the last of the major anti-aircraft batteries were destroyed, he's been fielding his forces like clockwork, now that he can't be stopped."

"But his forces attack different areas," Speirs insisted. "How are we to gather all of them in one place?"

"Weaken the shield."

Everyone again fixed their eyes on Ginny, who still sat there looking quite amused with the proceedings. "Weaken the shield here, at Buxton," she repeated.

Harry's eyes brightened as he realized what she was driving at, and gave Neville a nod. "You have your orders, Wenshi," he stated simply before eyeing Ginny. "Thank you for your cooperation. We'll be in touch if we need anything more."

Ginny merely smiled and gave a nod. "Of course," she said pleasantly before standing and leaving the room, accompanied by the Northern guards who'd kept an eye on her. This left Harry with Speirs and Curtis' transmitted images, and both of his colleagues seemed uneasy.

"Are you sure this is wise?" asked Speirs. "Weakening the shield may draw the enemy's attention here, but there's no way to be sure it'll hold against a concerted attack — even _if _you have the shield squads reinforce it after the bombing begins."

"I agree," Curtis weighed in. "This may be a plot by the mages to take out two birds with one stone."

"Your concern is appreciated, but unnecessary," Harry assured his colleagues, a little touched that they were keeping his safety in mind, even if they didn't voice that out specifically. "I will be on hand to ensure that the magical barrier remains strong. Furthermore, Wenshi will be tasked with setting off the bomb, and I am sure he will carry out his task with the utmost efficiency."

Harry turned towards Speirs' screen then. "Speirs, how ready is your troop?" he asked calmly, switching subjects.

Speirs seemed unwilling to change the subject, but nodded. "Everything's ready to go. I imagine the signal will be the bomb going off?"

Harry nodded. "Indeed. Be aware, though; we don't know what effects the bomb will have on our communications, despite the shield. If it goes off and we lose communications, carry out your mission regardless," he stated seriously.

Speirs nodded. "Right. We'll not let you down," he stated before the screen went black. Harry now turned towards Curtis, who, despite her greater age, seemed nonetheless to be patiently waiting for his instructions.

"Once Speirs has accomplished his move, I have no doubts the enemies on your front will begin a retreat. Capture as many as you can, even those from the Lightning Brigade," he ordered. "And see if you can't get us a few of those ships they're using while you're at it."

Curtis smirked as she nodded. "Done. Good luck, Potter."

Harry smiled at the woman before the screen went black as well. "You as well, General."

* * *

**Buxton, Northern Territories, August 25th, 2011...**

It was a gradual process.

Correctly determining that even if Thompson was reckless, his colleagues might not necessarily be, Harry had ordered the _apparent_ weakening of the barrier shield around his headquarters to be carried out slowly and gradually, with greater decreases occurring during moments of intense barrage. This gave the impression, then, that Taylor and Thompson's coordinated bombing of Buxton's shield was working.

After that, it was just a matter of time, and this time, his forward observers — all mages, all spread near the enemy airbases — all reported that more and more airplanes were being diverted that way.

Finally, on the 25th, the word came that _all_ of the Air Force was gearing up towards a coordinated attack on Buxton. It coincided with the day the enemy "apparently" managed to crack a hole in the shield.

When Harry woke up that day, he didn't know why, but it just _felt_ like the day would be important. Of course, intellectually, he knew it was — today he would either see the Royal Air Force virtually destroyed with his plan or die — but beyond that, it felt like a turning point. Like, as though that day would be the day everything would irrevocably change.

And he was right.

From the moment the sun peeked over the horizon, there was a strange sound in the air that caught every defender in Buxton's attention. The enemy had since withdrawn to the safety of their trenches, and though the artillery guns had fallen silent, there was no absence of sound, as a loud, growling sound could be heard in the air.

Then, the defenders pointed towards the southern horizon, where a seemingly black mass gradually appeared, like a horde of bees — except these bees were coming towards them at a horrifically fast rate.

Of course, Harry knew what it was the moment it was reported to him. The Royal Air Force was upon them.

Unfortunately, even knowing that he couldn't just yet ask the Military Mage task force to reinforce the shield — at that distance, the enemy force would be able to turn away from Buxton easily. No, he needed them nice and close before Neville could do his job.

Explosions rang out as Harry stood amongst his defenders near the edge of the shield. Air-to-Surface missiles crashed strongly against the shield, and though they didn't break through, it was enough to have Harry's men cry out in panic. Only his presence and the calm discipline of his commanders was able to keep the men in check, despite the incredible explosions happening no more than a few meters away.

Either way, Harry knew it was about to get much worse.

And so it did. The opening salvo over, the silent artillery guns raged back to life, smashing shells against the shield like it was going out of style. From above, the vanguard of the Royal Air Force began dropping its lethal cargo, and while it didn't dent the shield, the impact the bombs packed was enough to at least make the earth shudder.

Even then, Harry stood steadfast, and his commanders drew confidence from his calm demeanour, knowing he could have abandoned Buxton at any moment to save his own hide, but hadn't. His troops, too, realized their shame as they watched their leader brave the torrent of fire and noise without flinching, while they — who had campaigned since Spain — had been on the brink of panic.

Now rallied, the defenders weathered out the initial bombing run, a soldier flinching now and then but otherwise remaining at their posts.

And then the bombing intensified, and Harry knew it was time.

Drawing up his radio to his mouth, Harry pressed the speak button. "This is General White. Initiate Operation Mjolnir," he ordered.

It didn't take long after that for Harry to see the results.

A flash occurred high in the sky — as high as a broom could fly and dive away from quickly — followed by a fiery, violent ball of rapidly expanding fire. Then the noise struck them all, and Harry was duly impressed by how utterly powerful it sounded. At that moment, he was glad Speirs had inserted his clause in the trade deal, for such a weapon in mage hands would be catastrophic.

But the explosion was just the appetizer. Yelping as his radio communicator suddenly let out sparks of electricity, he dropped the object just as he began hearing the screech of airplanes dropping at terminal velocity towards the ground. Looking up, his eyes widened as he saw the veritable curtain of steel and explosives racing towards the ground in helpless abandon. Not many parachutes seemed to appear, either.

Fortunately, the Military Mage task force was close by. Cupping his hands nonetheless, Harry turned towards them and shouted at the top of his lungs. "REINFORCE THE BARRIER! _NOW_!"

Seeing the impending wave of kamikaze destruction headed their way, the mages were only too happy to comply, and the shield began repairing itself rather fast — in fact, too fast, Harry mused as he watched the holes in the shield disappear. Had the magical shockwave aided the Military Mages in their task?

He didn't have time to ponder that, as the first of the fallen planes hit the shield at full speed, soon blinding him as a white flash engulfed the entire area.

"Tch..." he grunted, annoyed as he was forced to look away. Only the magic he had fixed to his feet kept him from being blown off his feet by the shockwave, whereas several of his men weren't so lucky.

As the flash died out, and the spots finally left his vision, Harry observed the scene before him with more than a little trepidation.

Up in the sky, still expanding slowly, was a gigantic orb of fire and smoke. Soon, he knew, the orb would dissipate, but Harry couldn't help but be awed by it. Beneath it, as a testament to its power, lay a crater perfectly matching the contour of the orb, despite how far down it was. What made the view so horrifying, however, was the screeching sound of airplanes tumbling to the ground like wayward meteors. Plumes of fire and smoke burst from the ground as each fighter plane caught in the shockwave lost all of its electronics with the suddenness of a heart attack.

"Sit rep!" he called out, unable to tear his gaze from the awe-inspiring sight.

It took a moment for anyone to regain their senses after the first plane crashed against the semi-weakened shield. His men, however, were not veterans for nothing, and he soon had a sergeant at his side, crisp salute up.

"Sir, we've lost contact with Liverpool and the surrounding cities," the man reported gruffly. "All our electrical equipment is shot. Nonetheless, the tech boys are working on getting the land wires working again."

Harry nodded, having expected that based on Ginny's explanation of the bomb's effects. Fortunately, however, it didn't seem to have negative effects on magic. If anything, in fact, it seemed to strengthen active magics at the time of explosion.

The sergeant frowned then, his gaze on something beyond the shield. When Harry turned to see what disturbed the man, he was somewhat surprised to see what appeared to be a patronus just beyond the thick shield. While it couldn't move past, it didn't seem to want to, gazing straight at Harry.

"This is Neville," the ghostly patronus then broadcast, much to everyone's surprise. "Detonation team is safe. However, we're getting reports from as far as the northern outskirts of Manchester that anything electric has been blown to bits!"

Harry's frown, if it had been concerned before, reflected nothing but pure shock now. While Harry and the rest had expected the blast radius of the shockwave to take out maybe a tenth of Liverpool and Manchester, for the shockwave to have reached the northern outskirts of Manchester was mind boggling - more importantly, it completely defied their projections!

That was when Harry had a distinctly chilling thought. Had the Weasley woman purposely downplayed the effects of the bomb? Had she deliberately misled it insofar as its capabilities?

Even worse...Harry shivered as the thought crossed his mind.

Was it...possible that there was more than one bomb?

* * *

**Gloucester, United Kingdom, August 25th, 2011...**

While chaos reigned in the centre, Speirs was already hard at work putting the second part of the plan in motion: **Besiege Wei to rescue Zhao.**

Knowing there would be a chance that the bomb would destroy their communications, he had been forewarned that at a specific, preordained time, he was to begin his operation, regardless of lack of transmissions confirming the operation was a go.

That's what made this whole plan one huge gamble. In the end, the North was banking on his gut feeling as to whether or not proceed.

Fortunately, he chose to.

Rolling out of Rhys in Northern Wales, Speirs drove his army deep into the neutral southern Welsh lands, regardless of the nonaggression pact, and pushed right into Gloucester, taking the enemy (conscripted) garrison by surprise. Seeing the Northern forces approach in mass, however, more than broke their spirit, and these poor sons of Britain quickly threw down their arms in surrender, just as he'd predicted.

The plan, however, would not stop at Gloucester. Standing out of an open tank hatch, Speirs led his army out of Gloucester like a man possessed, finally bringing his forces back onto the highways in order to quickly advance on the prize.

London.

The crown jewel of the Empire had always been the target of the Northern Territories. Knowing they could not feasibly win on the field of battle, Harry had called for a strategy of dissimulation and misinformation, such that the enemy would focus their forces entirely on conquering the North, while keeping their own lands relatively unguarded.

To that end, Joshua had fought hard to secure the (off the record) nonaggression pact with the Welsh Loyalists, and the fruits of all their hard work and planning was finally paying off.

Practically undisturbed on their voyage from Gloucester towards the enemy capital, except for the odd patrol here and there that was quickly dispatched, Speirs could feel the morale of his men reach an all time high as his forces began to spot the old capital in the horizon.

"London ahead!" he heard someone cry excitedly over the radio.

"Maintain comm silence, soldier!" Speirs barked, although personally suppressing his own rising excitement at returning to the old capital. Looking down into the hatch, he called out for the radar specialist. "Anything?"

"Negative, sir!" the man shouted back. "Smooth sailing so far!"

Speirs nodded, almost afraid to believe that the Chiefs had left little to no guards in London, having banked on their campaign up north to be successful. Still, seeing no evidence of significant enemy forces ahead, Speirs braved the comm silence by activating his ear piece. "Soldiers!" he transmitted. "This is it! London awaits her saviours and the fall of the tyranny perpetuated by the Chiefs!"

Cheers answered his transmission. "Remember, though, that we are here as liberators, not occupiers!" he reminded his forces, knowing that invading armies could go wild in conquered cities. "Do not shame your brothers in arms! Fight for the glory and honor of our deceased friends, and the promise...OF A BRILLIANT FUTURE!"

Roaring cheering answered him as the Northern forces rolled into the outlying suburbia of London.

Unfortunately, as Speir's army progressed into the city, it became greatly apparent that not everyone was pleased with being liberated. Militias, no doubt formed up of fanatical followers and opportunists in favour with the Chiefs, began to resist the liberating army, forcing Speirs to break his force up to deal with the insurgents.

Nonetheless, the tyranny of the Chiefs, too, became apparent, as just as many civilians, who had long been oppressed under the heavy boot of the militaristic Chiefs, began to rise up in aid of their liberators.

Leading the force in his Challenger II Main Battle Tank, Speirs watched proudly as civilian and soldier fought side by side against the resistance pockets, with the wounded being tended to by civilian doctors who had been forced to cater specifically to the army.

Loud battle cries tore out of his forces' throats as they charged with wild abandon at their foes, more often than not simply terrorizing the enemy into breaking and running. More than once, to his chagrin, he watched as either his soldiers or civilian volunteers, on the edge of death, pulled the pin on a grenade and ran at the enemy, taking the insurgents by surprise and horrifying them at the zeal of the invading army.

Something tore at Speirs then. Ignoring the roaring sound of the tank's main gun blowing the enemy to pieces, he couldn't help the wave of depressive melancholy as he watched people who, years ago, had no doubt been friendly neighbours, fought each other as though their opponents were demons of the vilest kind. Neighbours who had probably shared mealtimes, had their kids play together, maybe even gossipped at the markets or over fences, now tore at each other with violent abandon.

Sitting back heavily, letting his sub-commanders take over for a while, he couldn't help the tears he shed as he both wept for his destroyed country, and the war's inevitable end.

* * *

**Buxton, Northern Territories, August 30th, 2011...**

"How bad is it?" Harry grunted as he held his left arm out to be bandaged. An hour ago, he'd been wounded in battle as he led a charge against the retreating enemy, now that word had finally filtered in that London had fallen to a surprise attack.

Neville stood before him, grim-faced and covered in sweat, grime, and dirt, ignoring the orderly who was tending to the leader of the Northern forces. "I was able to stop things from escalating any further, but the MPs still had to arrest seventeen soldiers," he reported, referring to a group of soldiers who, having caught and captured a sizeable portion of a Lightning Brigade detachment, had executed a dozen prisoners before Neville had interefered.

Unfortunately, while Harry wished he could say this was a tragic exception to the rule, he knew it wasn't the case. By the end of the previous day, the Military Police had been forced to arrest nearly two hundred soldiers found toying, torturing, or outright executing captured enemy soldiers. He knew why, too. After so much time spent on the defensive and having to tolerate being shelled daily and worse if captured, his troops had wanted payback. Only the strict discipline he espoused had prevented _all _of his troops from becoming war criminals.

"Tch..." he clicked his tongue in frustration. He wished he could just order the troops to calm the fuck down, but he knew that was an exercise in futility. All he could feasibly do was trust in his men, arrest the criminals, and hope his officers maintained field discipline. "What about the enemy forces?" he asked.

"Routed, for the most part. A few pockets of resistance here and there, but Taylor's done for. After London fell, it seems the officers under his command were ordered to pull back to retake the capital. Swift, Humboldt, and Hughes initiated pursuit, however, and destroyed any cohesion the enemy had left. Taylor is reported to have disappeared soon after."

"Always the coward," Harry grunted, flinching slightly as the orderly placed some wrappings around a particularly sensitive spot. He would've used magic to heal himself, but the medical mages were too busy focusing on soldiers far more wounded than he was, so he'd settled for old-fashioned healing. "Thompson?"

"Speirs caught him trying to flee the country," Neville said with a fierce smirk. "The bastard tried to board a private jet, but Speirs put a tank round into the runway before he could escape."

"Hughes?" Admiral Hughes, that is, not his Northern namesake.

"Dead," reported Swift as he entered the command post, looking a little ragged, but otherwise beaming. "Bumped into the mage squad that did it outside," he jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Tried to lead the resistance on board his flagship, but the mages did him in quick."

Harry nodded in greeting at the Hero of Stoke. "Problems?" he asked, knowing he should be in the field, still, chasing down and eliminating the remnants of the Chiefs' army.

Swift shrugged. "More like hindrance," he said noncommittally before giving a feral grin. "Ran out of bullets, but the logistics crew wasn't coming near fast enough, so I'm here to collect. I'm not about to let Humboldt get all the credit, damn him!"

Harry nodded and glanced at Neville. "See to it, Wenshi," he ordered, and the brown haired mage nodded once before leaving the room, accompanied by Swift.

"Sir," an adjutant said, coming up to him with one of the few electronic tablets still working. "General Curtis is declaring the northern front secure," he reported. "And Advisor Hughes is reporting a successful advance past Lincoln!"

Harry nodded, almost tempted to say "finally!", given that Curtis had taken her sweet time recovering her territorial losses. Instead, he settled for a curt nod. "Give the good general and Advisor Hughes my sincere congratulations," he stated, nodding in thanks at the orderly as she declared the bandaging finished. He closed his fist and opened it a few times, wincing just a bit as the wound acted up.

"Try to keep that arm's workload light for about a week," the orderly suggested. Harry nodded, mostly out of common courtesy, knowing that in a few days, he'd just have a medical mage heal the wound.

"I hear congratulations are in order!" he heard someone familiar call out from the doorway. He smiled as he recognized Sirius and Joshua, both of whom had pleased smiles on their faces.

"A most excellent campaign, White," Joshua praised him as he neared the raven haired man. "I can scarcely believe the plan worked as well as it did."

Sirius nodded. "We got lucky," he said seriously. "If Taylor had left more of a garrison behind, I doubt London would've been a victory."

Harry nodded in turn, agreeing with that analysis. "It was a gamble," he admitted with a shrug. "But a worthwhile one. Taylor's campaign has been nothing but pure aggression. That kind of man banks everything on victory, not defense."

"Well, thank heaven it turned out to be the right move," Sirius said with a renewed grin, clapping a hand on Harry's shoulder in pride. "Your folks told me to send their congratulations, by the way. James can't make it on account of having to fix everything that bomb of yours blew to hell."

Harry's expression darkened at that. "About that..." he mentioned, catching the duo's attention.

* * *

**Loughborough, United Kingdom, August 31st, 2011...**

"Oh my. Those lads really pulled it off, didn't they?"

Ginny smiled from her perch atop the roof of one of the still intact houses in the small town, her Northern guards nowhere to be seen. "They did," she confirmed with a smile, watching the Northern troops file through the streets as they continued their trek south, chasing the remnants of the Chiefs of Staff's armies. Even if they looked up at her, they wouldn't see her — courtesy of a Notice-Me-Not charm. "Their ingenuity is nothing to sneeze at. Nor their courage."

"Hmm..." mused the older man behind her as he slowly approached her, still taking in the ruined sights before him. "I couldn't help but notice you gave them one of your brother's wonderful toys to pull it off, too..."

Ginny gave a soft, melodic laugh — completely contradicting her persona as one of the most ruthless members of the Order of the Phoenix. "A gentle push in the right direction, that's all."

The man harrumphed before standing directly behind her, gazing down at the Northern troops as they marched past the house. "Won't he be on his guard now?"

Ginny smiled. "Perhaps, but he was assured we only had one bomb," she stated with a shrug. "Which was true, I suppose."

Her smile grew as she looked down on the troops. "At the time, anyway."

The older man nodded, his pristine, white beard dangling weightlessly beneath his chin. "So I take it the operation was a success?" he asked. "I'd hate to have come all the way past that infernal wall of theirs for nothing."

Ginny looked up at her 'leader' and smiled brilliantly. "Everything's set," she assured him before looking back down at the troops. A shadow passed over her face then. "The bombs are in place. By this time next week, all of the North's hard-earned spoils will come crashing down around them."

Flamel nodded as he stroked his beard pensively. "And the nation of Albion will rise in its place," he finished with a soft, wistful tone. "With the Rising Phoenix at its helm."

* * *

**_Post-AN: With that, the Civil War is over!...well, sort of. As anyone who's ever cracked open a history book will know, there's still reconstruction, consolidation, resistance movements to deal with, etc.._**

**_However, with this chapter now done, we'll be going on into the next phase of this biopic!_**

**_As always, don't forget to review!_**


	16. Chapter XIV: After the Storm

_**AN: So yeah...not dead. Yet. Goodness knows if that's going to remain true after you all get your hands on me for this insane wait. Anyway, sorry for the insanely long wait - as my author's page may attest, this was not due to review hostage-taking, or because I abandoned the story, but because I was stuck. Well and truly stuck.**_

**_Oh, and robbed, too. There's that. _**

**_Anyway, for those who were wondering - no, Harry isn't going to end the Civil War and immediately become Emperor. It's just not feasible at this time. He has a lot of crap to deal with first. Even Napoleon waited a while before declaring himself Emperor._**

**_That said, here's hoping you enjoy this peace offering!_**

**- MB**

* * *

The civil war was over.

Just _saying_ that was surreal to most inhabitants of the British Isles. For many, it had seemed as though the war would last forever, even if the actual fighting _had_ only taken four months. Who could blame them, though? For so many days, it had seemed as though the two sides would be locked in a deadlock, before the Chiefs had decided to throw caution to the wind and launch a massive campaign that brought them right to the edge of victory, only to have it snatched away by the superior tactics and diplomacy of the Northern leadership.

Yet, even as the fighting slowly died down, as there still were pockets of resistance here and there, the post-war landscape was really little better than it had been during the war.

For one thing, there were still millions of displaced citizens, both from Scotland and from England and Wales. No one knew what to do with these people, either. The suggestion to grant them housing in the homes of deceased families could only go so far, and whichever town or city accepted these displaced peoples would have their economic and social landscape shift significantly.

Moreover, there was the problem of the cultural gap that had formed between the North and the old English and Welsh territories. While the latter had remained under the strict militaristic command of the Chiefs, culture in the southern lands hadn't really been touched by the brass, seeing it as nothing more than an annoyance.

The North, however, had revamped themselves to create a new identity in the time since it had formed. Under Harry's leadership, and through the use of clever policies designed by Sirius, Xeno, and Joshua, a massive propaganda campaign had swept through the Northern territories throughout its short existence designed to rework the priorities of the populace.

The problem, as they'd identified, was that the nascent nation would never accept an expansionist empire in their current state of cultural priorities. Individualists would either reject or oppose expansionism, which would mean a crisis of government well before their plan could be implemented. So too would anti-colonialists, and as such it was important to eradicate, or even just make said ideologies too abhorrent to the populace to even consider.

Collectivism, thus, was the name of the game.

The problem was getting many of the influential — and he used that word liberally — personages of the recently conquered territories to agree to this new line of thought.

"The member from Wolverhampton is recognized..." the (temporary) head of the new (probationary) National Assembly droned on.

A portly looking man got to his feet in a wobbly manner, forcing Harry to restrain himself from rolling his eyes as he was already forcibly restraining himself from giving the man the condescending look he so meritoriously deserved. The man had been nothing but a blooming headache to Harry in the days since the Chiefs of Staff's final rout, demanding reparations for damages that they weren't responsible for, funds for infrastructure he didn't need, and favours from people who owed him nothing. Frankly, if it wasn't for the fact that Harry knew that no one had elected the pompous arse to his position, he'd have thought the whole damn place to be full of idiots!

Still, as much as he wanted to have the man lined up against a wall and shot, the people of Gainsborough had been suspiciously quiet about opposing him, so Harry had no choice but to recognize him as their representative...for now.

"Myes...thank you, Esteemed Head," the man pompously spoke up as he gave a horridly overdone bow to Harry, who was this time unable to roll his eyes at the man's actions. Thankfully, the man hadn't noticed as he worked himself up for another rant.

"Esteemed colleagues," no one had any illusions that he truly thought of them as colleagues, much less friends or compatriots. "As you all know, the recent end of hostilities between the Northern Territories and the Chiefs of Staff has left our lands in a frankly intolerable state. Roads torn up, schools bombed out...why, I've been told in my own home that some people are too frightened to leave their home due to wanton banditry from shallow and traitorous youths..."

"This is nothing we haven't heard from you before, Representative Abney," one of the man's colleagues, the Representative from Lincoln, noted without any humour, though some others in the chambers chuckled briefly at his interjection. "I assume you have some point?"

The portly representative purpled up a bit in indignation, but managed to wind himself down before he made any altercations that could get him ejected from the proceedings, as Harry dearly wished. "Yes, quite," he sputtered. "You see, if I may, I would point out that much of the post-conflict chaos has resulted out of this new line of rhetoric that's been reported in my area, noticeably from members of the Northern forces..."

Harry had to restrain a groan from escaping his lips as he listened to Abney give _another_ all-but filibuster against the collectivist agenda his government espoused. While the representative from Lincoln wasn't a fan of it, at least _he'd_ agreed to take a wait-and-see attitude.

Fortunately, as the Assembly session went on, he listened to no less than a dozen representatives voice some form of approval, either tacit or overt, for the new propaganda campaign marshaled by Sirius, James, and Baron Warwick. The three masterminds of the plan hadn't been able to attend the session (and, considering they hadn't been elected representatives, technically couldn't), but Harry had easily singled out their chosen — read: paid — proxies in the Assembly, and all three were quite busy passing notes (no doubt urging others to speak up in favour of the measure).

It was decidedly more subtle than Harry liked, but he had little choice at this point but to obey the new rules of the game — rules that as a military man, he was woefully uneducated about. Sirius, James, and Warwick, on the other hand, were much better versed in the intricacies of politics, thus why he'd left most of it in their hands while he conquered England.

The problem was, he could no longer afford to ignore his responsibilities, or as he liked to call it, "delegate."

As his father had pointed out, people didn't follow ghosts into the uncertain future. While Harry was well known as a military icon, and beloved by his troops, he was still more of a mythic figure for the vast majority of the population. Liverpool might adore him, but he wasn't about to be daily pub-talk in Brighton or Herstmonceaux. As far as people there knew, he was just some military man responsible for ending the war — no more, no less. They hadn't a clue that he'd been the one to push for legal reforms or infrastructural reconstruction. They didn't know he was responsible for there being little to no starvation following the war, thanks to his Mage-backed agricultural policies.

Bottom line, he was a conqueror, but he wasn't a ruler. Not yet.

As such, Harry needed to become more public, and the best way to do so was to head the new Assembly, where his closest companions and he all hoped to pass through the legislation needed to reconsolidate the country on their terms, not the old ones.

So far, so good. However, the matter of collectivist rhetoric being pushed as official policy was causing some friction. This had led to Harry realizing that as much as he wanted to bypass public approval for this new mindset, he had no choice but to use the public to influence the Assembly, rather than hope for a _de jure_ situation.

Joshua, mercifully, found a great way to influence the people to accept this new cultural mindset.

The way the war had raged for four intensive months had left much of the country broken, pillaged, and/or destroyed. Thus, in order to speed things up, a new kind of propaganda was needed in order to transmit the ruling government's (they didn't count the Assembly in that category) policy.

In order to help revitalize the nation and rebuild the broken bonds with their estranged brethren, everyone was to lend a hand, when and where they could, towards the reconstruction effort. Of course, the message of solidarity was pretty common, and in fact was baseline rhetoric for post-disaster situations. The _real_ trick, however, lay in placing all of the blame for the civil war on the Chiefs of Staff. While the reality had been much less one-sided, Harry and his faction could scarcely allow their own burgeoning government to be held back from total power on account of popular suspicion and resentment for their part in precipitating a civil war.

As such, great pains were taken to ensure that the message would touch as many people as possible. Stories of oppression at the hands of the Chiefs were transmitted every other hour in order to remind the Northern populace that the southern citizenry had been horribly oppressed. In the south, stories of collectivist liberators were, in turn, published to show them the wonders and strengths of the Northern system.

Obviously, there was no great shift overnight. People don't change their beliefs at the drop of a hat.

Nonetheless, amidst all of that, Harry ruled unofficially, though everyone knew it was just a matter of time before that changed...

* * *

**Liverpool, Northern Territories, September 12th, 2011...**

Whoever had said building a nation was harder than bringing one down had it right in one, in Harry's humble opinion.

As head of an active military operation in a warzone, he'd been able to go about with a decent amount of liberty as he visited frontlines, established strategy, and even led some skirmishes. he could hire and sack at a whim, enact or dismiss measures of disciplinary or other nature, and reorganize things to his pleasure.

As head (albeit an unofficial head) of a nation, he suddenly found his freedom to act cut by a large swathe. The reason was surprisingly innocuous.

Paperwork.

Harry had honestly never imagined that the slight headache he'd had to deal with as peacetime administrator of the North, or as a ranking officer in the army, could get much worse; and yet, here he was, staring at several small mountains' worth of paper laying on his desk, waiting to be read, signed, or sent back.

Not for the first time, though this time around he did so with an intensity unmatched before, he wished he knew of a spell that could split him into various persons so he could get rid of this chore as fast as possible.

Unfortunately, while the logical solution would have been to delegate much of this to the Civil Service or his Ministers, this particular course of action was blocked to him for two reasons: the Civil Service was _already_ working at full capacity, and he _had_ no Ministers.

To be fair, however, up until a month ago he'd been the leader of a military resistance movement, not a civil one. Frankly, he'd left most of the civil stuff to Sirius and his colleagues.

This time around, however, there was no escaping his duties as leader, something Sirius had taken special glee in informing him. After the former convict had done so, he'd smiled mischievously at Harry and said, "payback's a bitch, my boy," before leaving the office cackling.

At the time he'd thought only that Sirius may have lost some of his sanity during his stint in Azkaban, but after a few weeks of gruelling work he'd begun to realize that Sirius was getting back at him for saddling him with an impossible amount of work while he went around gallivanting with his army.

Hell, he'd realized just how bad Sirius had it once the first of the military requisitioning requests had come through. Harry had signed the order, only to find that the Civil Service and Treasury were in protest due to lack of funds for the request, the Logistics Bureau couldn't handle the added requisitions order, and there wasn't enough supplies to actually _fill_ the order.

When he'd asked why the hell not, the representatives from the different institutions had all gone on an hour-long rant about the shortages they were facing, the logistical nightmare they were already dealing with, and the sheer lack of industrial output.

This, in turn, had led to another rant a day later by the commercial and industrial sector representatives, who were bemoaning the lack of a workforce and clients. Needless to say, he also got earfuls from the small and medium business owners, corporate representatives, union leaders, and a number of organizations he hadn't even thought _possible_ could have an interest in the working of a military requisitions order.

All in all, by the time the first _day_ of post-war administrating was up, Harry had already been considering fetching himself a Time-Turner, going back to when he'd had the bright idea of creating his own nation, and killing himself. Time travel paradoxes be damned.

"Goooood morning, boss!" Sirius greeted loudly and with good cheer as he all but strutted into Harry's office, looking like the cat that caught the canary.

The raven-haired leader of the North (albeit this last month had caused quite a few grey hairs to pop up) looked up from his work to glare at his adoptive uncle. "Sirius, I swear to _god_ if this is about more paperwork..." he growled.

Sirius grinned at his godson before shaking his head. "Now you know how we felt all that time," he chided with a large, toothy grin. "Anyway, no, I'm not that cruel—"

"Yes you are."

"Yes I am," Sirius agreed without breaking stride. "But still, it's not about that," he reassured his godson before his good cheer became all business. "It's about the mages."

Harry didn't even stop reading as Sirius announced his real reason to be there. "What about them?" he asked as he speed-read the document. Something about...cauliflower? _Seriously_?

"They've repeated their request for—"

"The answer is still no," Harry interrupted his uncle as he signed the document and put it in his depressingly small "Out" pile. "There will be no reparations. There will be no repatriation. Not without submission to the requisites we put forth initially. This is non-negotiable."

Sirius nodded silently, knowing this would be Harry's response, despite Joshua's request to ask him again. The sole noble amongst the government had been dealing with the incessant requests of the Order of the Phoenix, now that the civil war was over. While the Baron of Warwick had absolutely no illusions that Harry would change his mind, nor did he wish for him to do so, he'd given a binding promise to ask Harry nonetheless.

The sore point in question was, as Harry had implied, the repatriation and remuneration of the mages who'd been forced to flee England at the outbreak of the anarchic period, following the Death Eater attacks. Now that the civil war was over, they argued, it only made sense to allow the mages who'd fled to return to their homes, as the Northern leadership knew these people were innocents.

Harry, on the other hand, had established a firm, hard line against their demands. Pointing out that there were millions of displaced refugees to deal with already, he argued that these people, who were outsiders in their own land, had to be taken care of first, especially before dealing with the needs of a tiny minority.

At the same time, Harry had pointed out that the Northern government, and the people of England and Wales, had zero trust towards non-Northern aligned mages. While the North had complete control over their magic-wielders, the expatriates living amongst the Order had no such restraints, so the question Harry posed was why they should allow such unrestrained mages to run around in a post-war nation still hurting?

Remuneration, on the other hand, was immediately disqualified. While the non-aligned mages could hope for eventual repatriation if they submitted to the Northern government, Harry had made it clear that the North wouldn't pay a single cent towards those who had fled the country in its time of greatest need.

This, of course, had brought him into conflict with the Order, who insisted that as citizens of Britain, their mages had the right to their possessions and remuneration.

Harry, on the other hand, argued that there was no such country anymore, and thus their rights didn't apply.

In a strictly legal sense, Harry was correct. The United Kingdom, with the victory of the North in the civil war, was officially disbanded; replaced by, thus far, what was simply called the Northern Territories.

That was about to change, however, as a new initiative from Harry's government quickly moved to solidify their legitimacy by reasserting their command over the nation.

"I thought so," Sirius said with a nod before giving his godson a serious stare. "...Harry, there's something off about the mages' requests," he opined. "Joshua agrees. They're being too pushy over...well...nothing."

Harry eyed his uncle for a moment before returning to his work. "I know," he agreed as he signed another document, thus formally legalizing the emergency powers of the civilian police. "Ever since the Chiefs' armies broke apart, they've been getting bolder."

"Any thoughts on what to do?"

"A couple," Harry admitted. "But most of them would leave Scotland a barren wasteland."

Sirius didn't need to ask what those ideas specifically entailed.

"This isn't going to stop any time soon, Harry," Sirius pointed out. "They're hardly running out of steam on this issue."

"And our answer will remain the same: no," Harry countered. "Tell Joshua to maintain a firm line. No more concessions, no more roundtable talks. What they've been offered is what they get, or they can walk away."

Sirius was silent for a moment before nodding. "Understood," he acknowledged before giving a slight bow to his godson. "Also, please remember that the next meeting of the Governors is tomorrow at six sharp. It's about the new governmental structure."

Harry groaned, never once having thought he'd have _more_ work after leading an _army_ through a war. "Yes, thank you," he acknowledged dismissively before returning to his work.

Without another word, Sirius left the room, only stopping momentarily to eye Harry worriedly before closing the door behind him.

Left alone, Harry stopped going through the paperwork as he pondered on the mage situation. After the bomb had gone off back during the Siege of Buxton, he'd feared that perhaps the mages had more of the devices, but if that had been true, then they had seemingly let the opportunity to use them pass them right by, which made no tactical sense. Fortunately _and_ unfortunately, Harry had come up with an analysis that chilled his bones at the time.

Simply put, the mages had lied to him, and there really _were_ more devices.

Ordinarily, he would've dismissed such an analysis, even from his own mind, out of hand, considering that the head of the mages, currently, was a pacifistic idealist who seemed to avoid conflict with quasi-religious zeal. It was telling of the man that the most he'd done to tilt the negotiations in his favour had been to try to appeal to the Northern leadership's better nature.

On the other hand, Harry hadn't been able to deny that he did know some mages ruthless enough to try to hide away some explosives for later use inside English territory, even if it meant going behind the backs of their superiors.

In the end, Harry had wisely opted to play it safe, and the moment the war was over had ordered Neville to gather up a task force and sweep the most critical areas of their territory for the devices using the magical signature they'd kept on record when the Weasley woman had coughed up their allegedly sole device.

The effort paid off, much to his horror.

Within three days, just as many devices had been found, tucked away in innocuous locations. Another seven were found a few days later through the use of Xeno's spies within Hogwarts. His reaction had been, predictably, beyond livid. To be honest, he was beyond even enraged.

So were his advisors.

Joshua, however, had pleaded for clear heads, much to everyone's surprise. After all, the Baron of Warwick had long been the greatest patriot of them, and the one most prone to bouts of emotional outbursts when it came to attacks on their country.

Nonetheless, the aristocrat had been the one to stop the military leadership of their nascent nation from bombing Scotland into a barren wasteland.

His reasons for it were surprisingly pragmatic, and not at all incorrect.

"As much as I would _love_ to be there when the mages up north are turned to _glass_," he'd said earnestly. "We've got to be realistic here. We've just come out from a _bloody civil war,_ and we're only _just_ recuperating. If we launch an invasion, we'll lose the public. If we lose the public, we lose the nation. It's as simple as that."

In the end, that argument had sold them, however reluctantly, to the idea. Instead, it was decided to use the bombs as evidence of the Chiefs' "dastardly plan" for a "last resort measure full of spite" to be used against the North if they'd lost the war. Fortunately, the Northern forces had been able to find the "horrible weapons" and dispose of them. In truth, they'd been shipped off to Elicia's hands for disassembly and reverse engineering.

The incident, however, still managed to colour Harry and his government's opinion of the mages even more sourly than it had previously been. To such a point, in fact, that when they finally approached the Northern government following the civil war's end to put forth their "requests" for repatriation, Harry had immediately ordered a negative response.

Little did he know, however, that in doing so he'd played right into the hands of his enemies.

* * *

**Hogwarts, Scotland, September 9th, 2011…**

"This is a disgrace!" roared an angry mage as he waved about a piece of parchment. "The Northern Territories mock us with these demands!"

"Do not exaggerate!" countered another. "While excessive, they are merely protecting what they see as their interests!"

"Let them protect what they want! This does not excuse the cavalier fashion with which they just _assume_ we will bow to their demands!"

Ginny watched, amused as a leprechaun watching an out-of-shape man chasing after its pot of gold would as the men and women who made up Hogwarts' ruling Wizengamot duked it out verbally over the Northern Territories' latest response.

While not a member of the "august" council, she'd been personally invited to attend by Flamel, who kept her at his side as his personal assistant. In truth, she was more Hermione's personal assistant, but in order to distance herself from the brunette in order to prevent her enemies from using her relationship with the genius against them she'd opted for a job at the side of one of the great untouchables of mage society.

As her gaze shifted from mage to mage, she felt herself drawn towards Dumbledore's hunched, aged figure. As the man was not a user of the Philosopher's Stone, he held none of the youth and vitality that Flamel possessed. In fact, the added responsibilities stemming from the days of the Great Reveal, the subsequent proscriptions from the central British government, and then having to administrate for the half of the magical society that still adhered to his ideal of the "Light" had all served to cause the incredibly old wizard (Flamel was so old he didn't count anymore) to feel his age far more acutely than he'd ever had before.

It only got worse after it was realized that Hogwarts could no longer function as a school – not because of the British proscription, but because of the fact that it was now needed as an administrative and political center for the British magical world.

While she still felt bad about McGonagall's depression – though it was noticeably better now that she could teach at the alternative school set up in the village around the castle – she had barely been able to hide her glee at Dumbledore's woes.

There had been a time when she'd seen him as a great leader, and a wonderful teacher, but those days were gone now. Her time as an Auror, and later as an excommunicated member of the Order due to her association and obsession with Potter, had served to wear down any pleasant feelings she'd had for the old wizard until they were naught but dust.

She eyed the man beside her, his tall, wide frame relaxed despite the vocal battle raging before him. Flamel was different, she found. He was much less prone to emotional baggage, particularly after his wife died, having caught a particularly virulent batch of Dragon's pox. Unlike Dumbledore, he was decisive and ruthless, both of which were qualities she'd grown to admire, even if there'd been a time when she would've been horrified at the things she did now.

Working for Dumbledore, she'd come to realize, had been suffocating. Between his insane moral compass and his devout belief in nonviolence, being an effective Auror, much less a normal _witch_ had been practically impossible! His standards were just too high!

Flamel, however, accepted her for who she was. She knew he'd had access to the Order reports detailing Dumbledore's belief she was compromised due to her obsession with Potter. She knew he fully understood the circumstances under which she'd associated with the greatest enemy mage society had ever faced. Even so, he had allowed her to confide in him and had taken her under his wing.

With Dumbledore, all she could see at the end of the road was a return to the status quo. With Flamel, it was an endless, boundless future.

Even so, that there had been an ideological split between Flamel and Dumbledore was not common knowledge. In fact, the only reason she knew about it was because she had Flamel's confidence. As it turned out, Flamel had been goading Dumbledore into taking more proactive measures to establish his own camp, but the former Headmaster had dragged his feet, preferring to stay out of as much politics as he could and leaving it all in the hands of Scrimgeour, who was only too happy to have such tacit endorsement.

Flamel, however, had been furious. It was no secret that he despised Scrimgeour, or that the feeling was quite mutual. Thus, to have Dumbledore delegate the politics of any new state to Scrimgeour had been a silent, if perhaps unknowing dismissal of Flamel's advice.

While Dumbledore still treated the multi-centenarian wizard with familiarity and respect, Flamel had subtly cooled off their relationship. It had been at that point that he'd approached her with an offer to work for him instead.

Ginny had little reason _not_ to take the offer, all things considered. On the one hand, she was held in almost perpetual suspicion due to her involvement with Potter and her perceived obsession regarding his abilities and intellect. Even if she was reintegrated into the Order of the Phoenix, there was no hiding the whispers and surreptitious glances the other members shot her way. Whenever she spoke up during meetings, it was always met with scattered frowns and rolled eyes, particularly if she mentioned Potter.

Sure, she'd retained her seat in the City Council, and her post as overall coordinator, but that had mainly been thanks to the steadfast support of her best friend, and now Flamel. Without those two, Ginny held no illusions that she wouldn't have been thrown out at the slightest provocation.

"How goes the operation down south?" Flamel asked her softly as he retained his gaze on the proceedings before him.

Ginny bowed her head slightly in respect. "The military managed to find the devices before detonation," she reported calmly. "As expected."

"Who are they blaming?" he followed up after nodding.

"So far, the Chiefs," she told him. "Though that's only publicly. We've concluded that Potter's people have decided not to engage in another war so soon after such a bloody civil conflict."

There was a pause as Flamel digested the information before nodding. "I agree," he concurred, casually raising a hand as a vote was called on whether or not to accept the Northern Leadership's demands. As usual, he voted against. "And your...agents?" his lip curled in mild disdain as he referred to the group of devoted mage-worshippers Ginny had been quietly recruiting outside of Dumbledore's periphery.

"They've been causing problems for the North," she told her superior with a smile. "Stirring up conflict amongst the civilians, influencing representatives to demand outrageous things in the National Assembly," she elaborated. "I think Potter never saw such a move coming, or he'd have had the whole lot of them shot."

"He's still thinking of Dumbledore as his main enemy; compared to him, our faction is completely unknown," Flamel reminded her. "The moment he shifts targets, he will be far more dangerous. Remember that," he advised seriously.

"I always do," Ginny replied earnestly, thinking back to the time she'd given Potter company during the whole Spain fiasco. She'd been utterly overawed by the man — the sheer ruthlessness hidden in those jade eyes of his has been striking to behold, as was his total lack of a moral compass. She knew, probably better than anyone, just how dangerous Potter could be...from the perspective of an opponent.

"Either way, we should be thankful," Flamel mused, his hand once again back up as another recount was called for after _another_ tiresome series of arguments for and against accepting the Northern Territories' terms. Once more, he voted against. "Without his help, we would not be in the position we currently occupy. How _is_ recruitment faring?"

"Hermione was reluctant, but I'm sure she'll jump ship when the time comes," Ginny assured her master. "I've been opening her eyes to the disappointment Dumbledore's been, and she's seen how the man's marginalized me, whether consciously or not. I've been at her side too long for her to let that slide again."

"And the others?" Flamel asked as he returned his hand to his lap, amused by the fact that his redheaded associate had instantly jumped upon the opportunity to vouch for her best friend.

"Good progress," Ginny summed up. "Colin's been keeping tabs on our supporters, and keeping them at a distance at the same time. No links back to us, no unnecessary missteps," she stated. It had always been a foregone conclusion that Colin would follow Ginny to Flamel's side. The young man was completely faithful to Ginny alone — not even Flamel could command his loyalty the way she did. It was a useful connection, if perhaps a little bothersome to the old mage, since it meant his loyalty banked on Ginny being loyal as well.

"Excellent work," Flamel praised simply before beginning to clap as the assembly of councillors voted to reject the terms offered by the North. Just as planned. He glanced to his side. "You know what to do, Miss Weasley," he simply stated as things began to wrap up.

The petite woman gave a cold smile before nodding and bowing slightly in respect. "Of course."

Without another word, she disappeared from sight.

* * *

**Liverpool, Northern Territories, September 10th, 2011...**

"Unacceptable!" Harry roared as he shot to his feet and slammed his fists onto his desk, making it creak from the impact of magically reinforced fists — an instinctual piece of magic for Harry these days.

Before him lay the motive for his rage; the Magical Delegation. For days, if not weeks now, they had been negotiating with Joshua regarding repatriation and remuneration, and he'd flat out rejected giving any of the latter, and made the former strictly conditional. He'd even impressed upon his foreign service how utterly non-negotiable this was.

And yet, here they were, rejecting his terms and demanding new ones. No, more accurately, presenting their old ones.

"Let me make this clear, gentlemen," he used the word loosely as he snarled at them. "There will be no remuneration for lost property, no remuneration for your exile, no remuneration for _anything_. Moreover, there will be _no_ repatriation _unless_ you accept to registration! This is _not_ negotiable! How is this not _clear_ to you people?" he demanded.

"Surely, Mister Potter —" started one of the negotiators, only to have Astoria, previously handling a jar of tea, suddenly appear at his side, a blade in hand held up against his throat. "Wha—?"

"Mind your manners, sirs," Astoria warned the delegation with a sweet smile that did nothing to hide the malice beneath it. "You are in the presence of Field Marshal and Grand Administrator of the Northern Territories' Francis White, not Harry Potter."

"How dare you!" sputtered another delegate as she watched her colleague be manhandled by an ordinary servant (Astoria not being one for using her field uniform while carrying out attendant duties). "We are envoys of the mages from Hogwarts! We have diplomatic immunity!"

"Oh?" Interrupted Xenophilius from his place against one of Harry's bookshelves. "I wasn't aware you'd all declared independence; I shall have to correct your entry in our data logs," he mused out loud.

The head negotiator, still held up with a knife at his throat, was quick to intercede, being fully aware of what such an official inscription in the Northern files could do to their bargaining position. "No, no!" he called out to Xeno. "I apologize for my colleague, but she's got it wrong," he eyed said colleague with a hard stare, telling her to shut up and let him talk. "We are still naught but concerned expatriates, seeking to return to our homes!" he insisted. "My apologies if I proffered any disrespect, Field Marshal White; it was not my intent."

Harry eyed the man for a moment before nodding to Astoria, who casually drew back the knife and hid it once more within the folds of her clothing. Without breaking stride, she then returned to serving Harry tea, acting as though she hadn't just threatened to kill a man before him. To be fair, it hadn't been the first time, so he was well used to such outbursts.

"Regardless of this little interruption," Harry eyed Astoria, who looked completely unapologetic. "The stance of the Northern government remains the same, delegates," he informed them. "There will be no further negotiating. What we've offered is what we're willing to give — not an inch, penny, or measure more. If your masters don't like it, well...to be honest, I couldn't care less. Just let them know that we _will_ be withdrawing our expeditionary force if the offer is refused; we can't very well waste troops on a conflict no longer in our interests," he added, having decided to tack on another fresh measure of pressure on the Hogwarts leadership, knowing Dumbledore couldn't very well afford to lose the single good thing that had happened to their faction since their civil war with the Death Eaters had started all those years ago.

Predictably, this sent the envoy, and his team, into another fit of indignation, though they were able to remain respectful this time. That said, Harry was about done with them, and if he had to hear them complain _one more time_ about his 'demands,' he swore he couldn't be held accountable for his actions.

Noticing this, Astoria did her job admirably by quickly shuffling out the delegation, leaving Harry with his spymaster.

The two remained in companionable silence before Harry spoke up, forehead leaned up against his folded hands on his desk. "Please tell me you've got good news," he half-whined. Honestly, after having to deal with the apparently brain dead mages, he needed something to cheer him up...or at the very least chase away his current headache.

"No more devices," Xeno stated simply. "We've finished our sweeps. Every last explosive device has been accounted for."

"Their origin?" asked Harry, still not having moved. While the news of the devices being found to the last was good indeed, it was hardly extraordinary. After having figured out that the mages hadn't switched magical signatures for the devices, it'd been a matter of time.

"Unknown," Xeno reported with a grimace, knowing that had been the salient point of information Harry had wanted. "They were much more careful with that. There was no trace found linking the devices with _anyone_. Not even Bill Weasley, their inventor."

"Weasley's a scientist, not a tactician; he wouldn't have cared where they went, so long as he got to tinker about," Harry analyzed meanly. "His sister is a much more likely candidate."

"Ginny?" Xeno questioned, remembering the bright young thing who'd always come around to play with his dear Luna, back when they were little tykes. Where had the time gone? "I know she's made an impression, but are you sure?"

"Positive," Harry confirmed, raising his head just a little. "She might not've been as ruthless as I was back when I got caught, but she's definitely capable of it. She's the same as me, in a sense — give her a goal, and she'll bulldoze her way through any obstacle."

"That makes her dangerous," Xeno opined. "Shall I have a team take her out?" It pained him to have even been able to _contemplate_ doing such a thing to one of his daughter's old childhood friends...and the daughter of two of his former close friends. Even so, he couldn't allow sentiment to get in the way of protecting the security of the country he now worked for — not when failing to do so could mean putting his darling daughter back in danger.

"No, not yet," Harry missed Xeno's slight sigh of relief. "She's clever, but still new at this game. She's bound to leave some trail somewhere...a trail we could then use to get to whomever it is she's working for."

"She could be self-employed, figuratively speaking," Xeno pointed out.

Harry gave him an askance stare. "A woman like her? Doubtful. She's clever, and more than capable of it, true, but she's also got a thing for causes. Can't live without one. No, she's definitely working for someone. Not Dumbledore, though; after Spain, there's no way she's still in his pocket...not after I set her on another path," he mused, having predicted Xeno's next suggestion.

"I'll have my men send out feelers in Hogwarts then, shall I?" offered Xeno.

Harry nodded. "Do so," he ordered. "Whoever it is she's working for, it has to be someone able to rival Dumbledore, or else she wouldn't have bothered," he deduced before turning to a more salient problem. "While you're at it, dig up some more info on her brother Bill. If that man managed to create some magical bombs without our knowing about it, there's not telling what else he's done, or is capable of."

"At once," Xeno agreed before bowing and moving to leave the room, just in time for the door to open right before he reached it.

"Harry, I need your opinion on — Oh!" a familiar sounding female voice gasped in surprise as someone bumped into Xeno. "Xeno! I'm so sorry, I wasn't paying attention!"

Harry heard his spymaster chuckle softly as he shook his head, stepping out of the way and revealing Elicia standing at the door, a couple of bandages around her hands being the sole reminders of her close call with enemy capture during the war. It was telling of the severe damage she'd been inflicted on that the wounds still needed time to heal properly.

"It's quite alright, my dear," the older man said with a kind smile before bowing his head towards Harry again and then departing, leaving the two lovebirds in the office. "Oh, and congratulations are in order, I believe, yes?" he added with a bright smile as he eyed the ring on the girl's finger before leaving.

The golden haired scientist smiled at Xeno's departing figure before beaming towards Harry, looking happier than he'd seen her in quite some time. Then again, what few moments they'd truly had with each other during the past four months had been coloured by the civil war, disasters, and political fallout...not to mention her own near-capture. Hell, any moment they had now was a vast improvement over those days, and they both knew it.

Of course, this was obviously compounded by the fact that he'd eventually been worn down by his friends and Elicia herself, and had finally proposed marriage to her. Not under the most ideal circumstances, as a pair of guards outside his office might attest to, but the deed had been done, and he had to admit he'd felt quite happy about it.

Which probably explained Elicia's _radiant_ mood. Heavens above, he wished he had something to keep him that happy 24/7. Knowing he'd get married to the love of his life was a definite booster, sure, but his paperwork was threatening to keep his mood permanently down.

Not that he'd ever tell her that, of course. He wasn't dumb enough to tell his fiancée that he was in no mood to see her at the moment because of some paperwork. He liked his manhood intact, thank you very much.

"Ellie, this is a pleasant surprise!" he greeted her warmly, standing from his seat and coming around his desk to wrap her up in a tight hug, which she reciprocated, parting only momentarily to give each other a welcomed peck on the lips. "I thought Mum wanted you to stay home while you recovered?"

Elicia smiled up at him. "She said it was alright to leave the house for a few hours," she told the love of her life. "Besides, how can I plan our wedding without the groom's input?" she asked rhetorically.

"Easily, if what I hear from my attendants is right," Harry remarked with a playful grin. He weathered her riposting punch to his shoulder with good cheer. "Ouch! Are you _sure_ you're injured?" he jibed. "I swear, your punches just keep getting stronger every day!" he made a show of rubbing his shoulder in mock agony.

Elicia eyed him dangerously, causing Harry to recall their carefree, youthful days back at Liverpool College. She'd worn the exact same expression back then whenever he'd bollixed things up, or when she was deciding what sort of punishment to apply whenever she caught him doing something that displeased her.

Occasionally, during their private time, too. But that's another matter altogether. And no one else's business.

"I'll get you for that comment, Mister Potter," she told him with narrowed eyes. He brushed it off easily as he leaned forward and cupped her chin in his hand.

"I'll let you get me anytime you want, so long as you're mine, and I'm yours," he told her with a charming smile, making her blush scarlet. Fiancée or not, she was still unused to the moments of utter charm Harry pulled on her from time to time.

It took a moment for her to recover from the overload of pleasure that pronouncement gave her, but when she did, she fell back into her usual habit and jumped right into business. "Anyway," she started off slow, hoping to somehow conceal the fact that her heart was beating at the speed of a jackhammer. "...Lily and I were wondering what name you wanted to use when we sent out the invites," she told him.

Harry blinked. When she'd said she needed his opinion on something, he _had_ guessed it had to do with the wedding, but he hadn't thought of this particularly annoying detail. Annoying for the sole fact that it was a massive headache.

After all, he was well known in the 'normal' world as Francis White. But he was born Harry James Potter. His filial affection for his family told him to use his birth name. His more pragmatic side, on the other hand, opted for the use of his more well known alter-ego. Even more complicated was the question of which thrice-damned last name Elicia would take upon marriage — would she be Elicia Eisenheim-Potter? Eisenheim-White? White? Potter? Which was it? For that matter, what if she wanted him to take her name? Would he be Francis Eisenheim? Francis White-Eisenheim? Vice-versa?

"Taylor's rotten _corpse_, Ellie," he breathed as his mind whirled at the massive conundrum she'd dropped on him. "That's a hard one."

The fact that she gave him a knowing grin told him she'd already deduced the massive problem behind any answer he gave her. "Yeah, Lily brought it to my attention the other day; quite the headbanger, isn't it?"

"That's an understatement," he mumbled as he put a hand on his head, trying to stave off another headache. "What's mum got to say about this?"

"She says it's up to you," Elicia answered with a wry grin. "I think she's getting a kick out of us having such mundane problems after having brought a nation to its knees," she opined. "That _would_ explain the laughter, anyway..."

"Glad to know my family thinks our impending nuptials are a roaring riot," Harry grumbled. "And dad? Asked him?"

Elicia nodded. "Oviously, he prefers if we went with your birthname and I took the Potter name, but since William's around, I don't think he'd mind if we went another way," she said. "Plus, if push comes to shove, he could just bully whoever Izzie winds up with into becoming a feminist and take her name," she added with a sly grin.

"That sounds like him, yeah," Harry agreed with a soft laugh. He then eyed her cautiously. "What about your folks?" he asked slowly. "Are they still mad at me for not asking for permission?"

She laughed out loud this time — music to his ears. "Yeah, dad's still hacked off," she told him, silently thankful they had sat out of the civil war by being in Germany...not that things were too well off there, either. Still, curfews and military checkpoints beat out an outright civil war any day of the week. "Mum loves the whole idea, though. Thinks it's quite romantic."

"I'm glad I've got _half_ of your family on my side," Harry said with a smile. "But what about the name dilemma? Any opinions on their end?"

Elicia eyed him. "Dad's pretty set on seeing you dead before there's even a wedding, so I didn't ask him. Mum said it was our decision...and then laughed."

"Glad to see our mothers seem to be of one mind," Harry deadpanned before sighing. "Honestly, Ellie...I don't know."

His fiancée smiled at him as she squeezed his arm comfortingly. "Don't worry about it, luv. Doesn't need to be right this instant, and it doesn't matter to me if it's Francis or Harry, or Potter or White...either way, it's _you_. That's all I care about."

Harry blinked at her in surprise for a moment before giving her his own radiant, true smile. The smile he kept just for her. "Thank you, Ellie. That means more than you could possibly imagine. Thank you," he told her sincerely.

She winked at him and flashed her ring with a grin. "What are future wives for?"

* * *

**Unknown Location, Scotland, September 20th, 2011...**

"Dumbledore has been dragging his feet for too long!" argued a man in mage robes as he stood behind a podium overlooking a veritable sea of wizards and witches.

"The Northern Territories' leadership has been mocking us constantly these past few weeks with their ultimatums and unreasonable demands!" the man continued passionately. "No compromise, they say! No negotiation! Like savages, they accept only submission to their will, not dialogue amongst rational beings! And what does Dumbledore do? He takes it all! His protests are but the mewls of a tamed cat before a savage lion!"

The sound of booing resounded through the halls, making Colin's eyes widen fractionally at the sheer amount of similar sentiment being shown. Looking around, he could easily see the rage barely hidden in the expressions of many a mage. Obviously, the situation had progressed even worse than they'd imagined.

A whistle to his side had him glaring at his companion, who ignored him. "Man, he's really laying it on thick, isn't he?" asked his comrade as she swept a hand through her hair.

"Do you _want_ these people to realize we're not on their side?" he whispered to her harshly. "_Shut up_, Greengrass!"

Daphne Greengrass eyed her partner with disdain. "Oh, come off it, Creevey," she said dismissively. "They're all too busy listening to that firebrand to even pay any attention to us." She eyed the crowd again at this point. "I count sixty-seven. You?"

"Seventy-three," Colin replied immediately. "Looks like this recruitment round's a win for them," he opined just before wincing as a bloodthirsty cheer ripped through the crowd. "Merlin's _balls_ I wish I'd brought earplugs."

Daphne gave him a sly smile before shrugging. "Either way, want to ditch this place and let your precious boss know?" she suggested.

Colin nodded as he made gestures to a few other operatives in the room, all of whom replied appropriately. "Yeah. The devices are set. We're good to go any moment now," he told her.

"On three?"

"Yeah," Colin agreed as he relayed the Disapparating instruction to the other agents.

"Three," Daphne began the countdown, slowly lowering her hand to her wand. "Two..."

"One," Colin mumbled, his own hand at his wand now.

"Go." they intoned simultaneously, popping out of view just before the whole room went white.

When they reappeared, they were in the designated meeting place — a cliff overlooking the entrance to the hideout where their targets had been setting up recruitment drives. As part of Ginny's orders, they'd begun an initiative to bring the fight to their enemies more proactively, and this mission, it appeared, would be another success.

"Welcome back," greeted another operative as he turned away from the cliff edge to meet those who'd gone inside.

"Report," Colin cut off Daphne's greeting with a terse command.

The man didn't seem all that bothered by it, thankfully. "Listen," he said with a shrug as he motioned towards the cliff edge.

As the man had suggested, the group went over and strained their hearing to listen to the commotion at the bottom of the cliff. Screams were clearly coming from the entrance, as was a column of black smoke that told them their devices had worked.

"That's the third recruitment drive we've interrupted this week," the observing agent mentioned. "How many were there?"

"Anywhere from a hundred forty to a hundred fifty," Daphne said with a sweet smile that fooled no one. It was as clear as day she fancied the observing agent (even if only physically) and wanted in his good books...for now, anyway.

"That's a hundred less than last time," Another operative mentioned as she took off a boot and emptied it of rocks and dirt. "At least we know it's working."

"Big comfort that is, considering how many of the damned bastards there already are," the final member of their group groused.

"Any blow we land on them is a blow they suffer from," Colin told his group sternly. "Which is more than what the Order can say," he reminded them before looking at the witch emptying her boots. "How about your end? Everything good?"

The woman paused in her ritual before nodding. "Yeah. Everything's set," she stated neutrally.

Colin nodded, pleased at the news. "Excellent. Pack up, lads, we're going home," he ordered as he swept out an arm. "Leave no trace of our presence, you all know the drill!"

Daphne rolled her eyes as the rest of the group went to follow his orders. Colin was far too much of a tight-ass for her liking. Though her junior in age, he was still nonetheless held in higher regard than she was, on account of her "Dark" lineage. Meh. What did she care? The only reason she'd even taken this job was because it beat the hell out of listening to the Dumbledore camp preach at her about morality and "goodness."

At least _these_ blokes didn't mind getting their hands dirty.

"That meant you too, Greengrass," Colin then spoke up acidly.

She gave him the two fingered salute in response as she whipped out her wand and quickly gathered her effects. "There. Happy? Or are you afraid your little mistress will frown at you if you're a second late?" she taunted.

Colin, as usual, didn't rise to the bait, though she could clearly see she'd succeeded in irritating him, judging from the clenched fists. "Whatever. Everyone ready?" he called out. A chorus of affirmatives answered him, prompting him to nod. "Alright, then. Meeting point...Delta. Let's be cautious about his, eh? See you all on the other side," he told them before disappearing from sight with such a soft pop that it might as well not have been there.

Within moments, the clearing was empty once more.

* * *

**Manchester, Northern Territories, September 22nd, 2011...**

For the life of him, Harry couldn't understand _how_ Sirius had managed to keep attending these functions without killing _someone_.

As his _dearest_ uncle had informed him in that morning's brief, he was expected in Manchester to inaugurate the repaired highway towards the southern regions. Then, in the same city, he was hosting the city's Chamber of Commerce. Then meeting with the unions, who were apparently disgruntled at the lack of voice they had in the National Assembly (conveniently forgetting that said Assembly was but a temporary measure while a new government was set up).

Even then, he wasn't done with the blasted city. The Communists wanted a word, apparently (no doubt to try and see if he'd turn to their cause or whether to make trouble for him). Still, _that_ wasn't a meeting he could brush off — the British Reds had been instrumental in the Civil War by providing much of the Northern Territories' local militia forces, which had served well to ambush Taylor's armies at key locations.

Then, of course, there was the question of assigning the mayorship.

Well, that was a headache in itself, to be frank. Since Sirius, James, William, and the rest had taken up more official posts, they had left notable vacancies behind that needed to be filled. The question was whether to assign the post based on elections, or assigning another Grand Administrator.

Both had their benefits, in his opinion, though he was leaning towards the latter. Elections were tricky business — there was simply no guarantee of victory, and he wasn't about to hand over his centre of power to some demagogue who got lucky. Not when he was _just_ managing to get the country into his grip.

Sirius would no doubt make a bit of a fuss on account of the possible fallout, as would Joshua, but in the end Harry had no doubt the two would support the measure. Neither man was an idiot, and they both had just as much riding on this as he did.

Well, at least the economy was doing okay. Not great, certainly, but okay. He had the Goblins to thank for that, though. The gaping hole in economic stability caused by the civil war had been like Christmas come early to the Goblins, who instantly jumped at the chance to take over practically every banking institution in the Northern Territories of any note. Finally breaking all ties with the mages up north, the Goblins found the 'normal' economic system much more to their liking, quickly worming their way into economic power.

Not that Harry regretted such actions — they were as much in his debt as he was in theirs, and he still had an Honour Squad on retainer, ensuring their loyalty if they ever wanted the next successor generation of Bank and Clan heads to come back alive. Which reminded him...he had a few enemies he needed gone...

Idly bringing up a piece of paper onto the desk and writing down a few instructions, even as the event's officiator kept droning on about...agricultural products or some such...honestly, he didn't know, and frankly felt out of his depth. Why couldn't Sirius have come to this?

Oh, right. They'd asked for him _personally_.

_Damn leadership duties!_

A buzzing sound coming from his trouser pocket — also mildly annoying — broke his attention from his writing _and_ the conference. Scowling, he brought out the mobile phone he'd all but had shoved into his hands by Sirius prior to the conference.

It'd been one of those fancy new smartphones that were all the rage, as far as he understood. Hell if he knew why, though. Blasted keys were too tiny to adequately type on, and it was so damn complicated to access any information! Honestly, Harry had no idea how Xeno had gotten the hang of them, and _he_ wasn't the one who'd spent his whole life amongst Muggles!

"_Situation with Auntie Potty Mouth. Call back ASAP!"_ he read on the screen. Frowning, it took him a moment to decipher Sirius' rather...bland pseudonym for Curtis. He idly wondered what new dimensions of pain she'd introduce his uncle if he told her of Sirius' nickname for her.

Excusing himself politely, he quickly made his way towards the left side entrance of the stage and quickly dialed up Sirius once he was out of sight.

"Sirius, it's me," he cut off his godfather's monotone greeting.

"_Wha — oh, Harry! Good! You got my text?_"

"No, I decided to make an arse of myself in the middle of a conference for kicks," Harry snarked in deadpan. "Of course I got the bloody message!"

"_Text, Harry. Text. Or SMS, if you prefer. No one says message anymore these days,_" Sirius chided his godson with a very audible undertone of amusement. Obviously, Sirius was one of the few people who knew about Harry's distaste with phones. Not just smart phones...Harry was hopeless with _all_ types of phones — it was a never ending source of amusement for those who knew, too.

"Sirius, you've got _ten seconds_ to tell me what's the situation with...you know who, or I'll see to it that you take over _all_ my duties during my honeymoon!" he threatened, knowing _exactly_ how Sirius would react to that.

As expected, Sirius gave a deep breath of horror. "_You_ _**wouldn't**_."

"Ten..."

"_Okay, okay...fine,_" Sirius relented, much to _Harry's_ amusement. It was nice to know what buttons to push to get his subordinates to get back on track. "_Anyway, it's probably nothing. Curtis came by headquarters the other day from her tour up north, and everything was fine and dandy._"

"You called me out of a conference to tell me everything's _fine_?" Harry asked incredulously. He could almost _hear_ his uncle's eyes rolling.

"_No, you little berk,_" Ah, the joys of being family. Apparently decorum didn't apply to those who grew up with each other and fought and bled together. "_Curtis told Speirs, who told me that she'd been reported to by a few soldiers here and there up north that their equipment's been failing sometimes. Nothing big, nothing connected. Just the occasional electric shortage._"

Harry frowned. He had a good idea what could be doing just that. "How close were these incidents to the Babylon Wall?" he asked.

"_Pretty close. I thought the same thing and had Neville investigate while you were on your way to Manchester this morning. He agrees it's close enough to fall within the margin of error for safe distance from the Wall's wards."_

Harry grunted in acknowledgement, processing this information in his mind. On the one hand, at least this wasn't a mage attack of sorts. He didn't know if he could handle that right now, what with the National Assembly and their likes hounding his every step with bureaucracy and due process. Even worse, most of his army was still in recovery mode following the four month-long brutal civil war. Add to _that_ the fact that they were spread thin garrisoning the country, and Harry had a perfect storm scenario on his hands. Just the one fuckup could bring it all down.

"Tell Curtis to pull back any affected garrisons fifty meters further south in order to safely clear the wards. Even if they just lose a couple of electronics, that's equipment we can ill afford to buy out of hand," he reminded Sirius. Goblin and aristocratic backers or not, it was damned impossible to fund an army larger than the one he'd fielded against the Chiefs without state funds...and the State was just getting out of the black hole Taylor and his lot had put it in.

"_There's something more._"

Harry's gaze sharpened as he checked he wasn't being eavesdropped on. Sirius' tone was not one he had a good feeling about. "What?" he asked seriously.

"_Abney popped up on the radar,_" Sirius informed his godson. "_Xeno thinks it's time to move in on the dear Representative of Wolverhampton._"

Harry pondered on that for a moment. A few weeks ago, he would've given the go-ahead without second thought. Now, he had to think it through — could he just order a hit on a representative from the National Assembly?

"Alright, give the green light," Harry decided at last. "But tell him I want Nightshade on it. No one else."

"_Alright. Cheers, Harry._" With a click, the line went dead.

Sighing, Harry tucked the phone back in his trousers and schooled his face into a smile as he walked back onstage, giving a reassuring wave to any of the panelists' curious gazes. He checked the clock then.

...Taylor's rotting _balls_, still two hours left? DAMNIT!

* * *

**Wolverhampton, Northern Territories, September 29th, 2011...**

Josefina tugged on the wrist end of her right hand glove with her teeth as she made the garment nice and snug. For this mission, she wanted absolutely no chance of slip-ups, and that included having all of her gear and equipment nice and snug on her.

The order had come a week ago, but she'd waited this long in order to scout out the target's habits and patrol schedules. From what she could see, he wasn't your run-of-the-mill populist politician, whatever his propaganda said.

His guards were well armed — better than the militias under the Chiefs of Staff had been, in fact — and well trained. If she had to guess, private military contractors...mercenaries, in short. The man certainly had the money for it, it seemed.

She eyed the gates to the rather opulent villa from the relative safety of her room's window's blinds. She'd taken great pains to find a room that had eyes on the front gate, and had struck out constantly until she happened upon a house whose owners had an 'unfortunate' accident once she'd found out they were smugglers stealing from one of the military-run hospitals. No one would miss them, and those who would couldn't go to the police without possibly inciting a wider manhunt.

Silently, she watched as another car — no doubt proofed against most bullets — rolled out, and sighed. Not for the first time, she wished Harry had let her bring a spotter with her on this mission. Hell, if she _really_ had it her way, she would've brought the Goblins, since they were the most effective warriors she'd seen, however they were far too conspicuous. Even so, a simple watcher would've done wonders for her stake outs. As it was, she'd been forced to stay awake for two days straight to make sure that the pattern of guard shifts didn't change, since apparently finding a video camera at the store these days was all but bloody impossible. She then performed another two-day marathon on the fourth and fifth day, just to make sure she hadn't missed something.

Fortunately, the humble representative of Wolverhampton was rather like a machine — dull, repetitive, and lacking in creativity. As such, she had a decent understanding of his security arrangements — which was more than she could about some of the other assignments Harry had sent her way by _personal_ recommendation.

As it turned out, her dearest wish of becoming useful to Harry — back when she'd been a naive, little trauma patient of a teenager — had come true..._too_ true, in some respects. Having noticed her skills, Harry was now using her as an extension of his vengeful will, and even though she was still quite young, she'd nonetheless already killed over thirty people. Most of them in their sleep, thankfully.

Fortunately for her sanity, she had yet to go into a mission where she'd needed to sleep with the target in order to get close, though she had a sinking feeling that would come in time. She wondered about that for a moment, allowing herself a distracted pause in her preparations to contemplate her future. How would she react if Harry assigned her a mission where she'd _have_ to sleep with someone in order to achieve the mission parameters? Would she reject it out of hand? Would she take it?

A part of her (a large part) wanted to think she had enough self-respect to refuse such missions. Yet, she knew that there came a point where certain targets — certain _important_ targets — could only feasibly be approached in that way...or via a high-powered sniper rifle during a one-in-a-million opportunity.

Clicking her tongue irritably as the thought process derailed her from her work, she returned to checking her gear one last time before the mission officially started. From what Xeno had told her, she needed to make this one clean — no links to the government. Furthermore, there might be intelligence on hand about secret dealings between the Representative and other parties, so she had to look for _those_, too.

"Can't a girl get a break, _carajo_?" she muttered as she hooked on a flashlight onto her belt, the last piece of equipment she figured she'd need. Still it paid to be prepared for all eventualities.

Patting herself down, she smiled as she checked off her equipped gear on a mental checklist. All set.

Sitting down next to the window, Josefina settled in for the wait as the proper moment came to pass. Checking her watch, she knew that to be forty minutes from now. The minute hand moved down ever so slightly.

"Thirty-nine minutes to go," she sighed as she leaned on the windowsill, eyes still on the gate.

Man, who knew espionage and assassinations could be so dull at times?

* * *

_**One Hour Later...**_

Josefina sighed as she stood above the still-warm corpse of the _former_ Representative of Wolverhampton, his face purple from air deprivation, courtesy of one of Xeno's pet psychopaths' (read: scientists) nastier drugs.

He'd put up some resistance, to his credit, but even said resistance had been laughable, at best. He'd swung around an expensive-looking chandelier, which of course meant it was ridiculously fragile, in her experience. A single backhand with her padded glove (plus extra metal band on the back of her hand) had cracked the object, surprising the man enough to drop it, causing it to then shatter.

After that, it had been ridiculously easy to administer the drug (thank goodness for those new hypodermic needle injectors Xeno's boys had invented) into his carotid, though she hadn't stuck around to watch him asphyxiate. She was a professional, after all — she didn't get her kicks from killing people. Either way, as he lay dying, she'd gone and searched his office, practically ransacking it for any information. Nothing.

Grumbling irritably, she'd then checked the man's computer — another ridiculously expensive looking thing he had, and she half-expected him to be barely capable of using the word processor application. Fortunately for her, that translated into incompetency in regards to adequately hiding his files on said machine. Quickly grabbing a thumb drive from her pouch, she quickly went about downloading the interesting bits of his hard drive onto it.

As she did so, she felt mild surprise at what she found. Weapons plans, classified reports from the Chiefs of Staff's military, a few monetary arrangements in return for leaving Wolverhampton out of the fighting...the man had seemingly had a hand in every sort of mischief she could imagine. She curled up a lip as she even read of his dealings in modern day human trafficking — healthy young men being sent to London for the Chiefs of Staff's conscript armies. Little more than slaves, in her opinion.

Still, it explained the inordinate wealth and power he'd wielded over the city, particularly after the British government fell to pieces. With his money, he'd probably bought himself a small mercenary army (she'd already had the pleasure of...dispatching a few dozen of them on her way to kill Abney) and then killed anyone brave enough to stand up to him until the rest were bullied into silent obedience.

Then, just as she was about to miss it due to her silent rage, her eye caught onto a particular file that had her gaping. It was an invoice — harmless enough, if described as just that. Unfortunately, its contents were much less benign.

"One...two..._madre de dios_, _twenty-seven?_" she had to restrain herself from shrieking. Quickly, she looked up another document she'd gleaned over but now seemed much more relevant, having digested that particular invoice. Cross-referencing the two, her eyes bulged in shock. Finding another document, she could only feel her horror grow as she slowly uncovered Abney's most dangerous deal ever.

Twenty seven _new _magical bombs, apparently already spread throughout England and completely outside the Northern Territories' knowledge.

All ready to explode.

"Oh, _fuck me_."

* * *

**_Post-AN: Nothing big this time around. Just a head's up on something I've done over this downtime._**

_**While it's true that I've been horribly slow in writing this chapter, that doesn't mean I've been idle. In fact, in order to get the crazy out of my head so I could write this chapter, I've started on another project that is already ten chapters in. For those of you who've actually perused my author's page, that would be the Naruto story I recently named "Legacy of Uzushiogakure." If it's something you're interested in, awesome. If not, no biggie. If nothing else, working on that one has helped me get back into my writing groove immensely.**_

_**The first chapter of that one will be up simultaneously with this chapter, so if you're interested, check it out.**_

**_-MB_**


	17. Chapter XV: Explosive Reaction

**_AN: So yeah, not dead. Turns out, having no job for three months pretty much killed any inspiration I had to write. Now that I've actually -got- a job, however, I've been writing like crazy. The result: a double-header tonight; Chapter VI of Legacy of Uzushiogakure and this chapter of Emperor._**

**_This brings me to a piece of good news/bad news: The Death Eater war, while significant to the rise of the Northern Territories (working name for Harry's empire; not permanent) is nowhere near as action-packed as the Civil War, and so it won't: 1) take more than a few chapters; and 2) be as focused on the action. The sad truth is, the Death Eaters are mostly an excuse for Harry to get rid of a few pests, and while the final fight against Voldie will include some concentrated action scenes, he's not the Big Bad in this story; remember that. He's bad, don't get me wrong, but he's not nearly at the top of Harry's priority list. And yes, the Horcruxes will still come into play; just not in the "Legend of Zelda"-esque manner JKR wrote them into the story._**

**_So yeah, gonna try and get the first chapter of the war out as soon as possible._**

**_Cheers,_**

**_MB_**

* * *

_**Liverpool, Northern Territories, October 5th, 2011...**_

"Good grief," Xeno commented idly as he listened to the brouhaha coming from beyond Harry's office's door. "It's quite the madhouse out there, isn't it?"

The office's owner gave his intelligence chief a hard, yet brief glare before returning to the small mountain of reports piling up on his desk, all of them having to do with a singular situation that had somehow managed to rock his government more harshly than any other crisis they had faced thus far...with the possible exception of the civil war they'd just gotten out of as the victors.

"You would be too, if you were tasked with finding twenty-seven untraceable high-yield explosives in a country so utterly demolished it's practically hide-and-seek heaven," Harry snarked as he flipped the page on the file he was reading. Another failed mission in trying to find the bombs Josefina had discovered, this time in the outskirts of London's suburbia. Privet Drive, or some such nonsense.

"True," the older man conceded. "Though I have to tip my hat to Sirius — I haven't heard a word of this breathed to the public, much less the media."

"Sirius is quite capable of doing his job, Xeno, as I expect you to do yours," Harry replied idly before putting away the file and going for another from his stack. This one was for...Section 14 of Leeds, it seemed. "Why were these bombs outside of our knowledge until now?" he asked calmly, though Xeno didn't need a lifetime of writing up periodicals to hear the very real undertone of tempered fury in Harry's voice.

"There was never any evidence of such smuggling across the Wall," Xeno decided not to lie. "Our sources, too, failed to report the existence of more than one bomb. We never had any reason to look for such a thing."

"Which means you trusted the Weasley woman's word on the existence of a single bomb," Harry retorted, having long since deduced the problem. "You believed her when she told us that they would make no more...and who knows? Perhaps she's kept her word on that end, but not before twenty-seven were already built," he pointed out before stopping his reading and glancing up at Xeno over the rim of his reading glasses.

"This was an unacceptable failure, Xeno," his voice was ice to the ears, and Xeno couldn't help but feel a chill run up his spine as his gaze was fixed on one of the most powerful wandless mage in the Northern Territories. "And were it anyone else, they would've been sacked for this mistake. Fortunately, you've been at my side for years now, you've done excellent work, and you and your daughter have been good friends to mine and I," he stated. 'So for our continued friendship's sake, I won't take such action; instead, I'm giving you a chance. Fix this situation."

"Fix it?" Xeno parroted, a little unsure what Harry meant by it.

The raven haired general nodded. "Fix it," he confirmed. "Find the smugglers. Find the providers. Hell, find the people who moved them throughout our territory. Turn over every rock, bring down every wall, and burn through every obstacle until you find out where they are, and then you get me answers," there was zero hesitation in Harry's voice, and not for the first time Xeno was amply reminded how it was that Harry had survived a public trial, years of military scrutiny, and a civil war to become the _de facto_ head of state of a new nation. "I don't care how you do it. I don't care who you go after, so long as you can prove they're a part of this. If they are, do whatever you need to in order to get me that information."

"What about the legal guarantees everyone gets?" Xeno had to protest, though more for the sake of avoiding ugly judicial disputes between the civilian population and the state than out of any real moral apprehension — though that _did_ cross his mind. "Habeas corpus? Trial by juries? Warrants?"

"Hang the guarantees!" Harry suddenly slammed his fist onto his table, losing quite a bit of the self-control he'd maintained so far. "The Northern Territories are still under martial law, which means my word _is_ the law. Sirius will take care of any PR problems we get. For now, though, the security of our nation is more important than some self-righteous windbag with a chip on his shoulder!"

The way he'd phrased it, Xeno wondered if Harry had already been informed of such an encounter. Still, it _was_ the sort of vocal _carte-blanche_ he'd been looking for. Raising a fist to his chest with a soft thud, Xeno gave a short bow of acquiescence. "I understand," he stated simply. No sense in dragging it out, after all.

Harry gave a short grunt before returning his attention to his paperwork. "Dismissed, then," he stated idly as he flipped through the report in hand — another bust. Within the periphery of his attention he heard the door open and close — a sure sign Xeno had left — only for the action to be repeated ten minutes later.

"Sir, your uncle is here wanting a word," he heard Astoria inform him.

"Send him in," Harry stated curtly, going through the report on the Wolverhampton operation again. Maybe something there would point out the likely placing of the bombs — he doubted it, but it wouldn't hurt to look again.

"Harry, did you seriously just tell Xeno he could do anything he wants to civilians and I'd have to explain it away?" Sirius was straight to the point, had to give him that.

"I did," Harry confirmed idly.

"Are you mad?" Sirius goggled at his apparently lunatic godson. "Do you have any idea the PR nightmare that would bring? Not to mention feed that moralising twit Pierce with more ammunition against the government!"

Clive Pierce, the bane of the Northern government, was of course the latest of those pesky thorns digging into Harry's side. A barrister from the old days, he'd worked in the Scottish lands prior to their loss following the Death Eater's attack on the civilian government and the general order of evacuation after the mage civil war engulfed the region. Since then, he'd campaigned for what he declared to be a "righteous state," which of course meant a utopian vision of morally untouchable democracy — a pipe dream, in short.

The problem was that they'd decided to let him live when the option to kill the man had been brought forward by Xeno. Harry and his closest advisors had concurred that the man was nothing more than a pest without future. Unfortunately, he'd managed to gather enough of a gathering, albeit not even numerically or politically significant, to make his passing now both suspicious and grounds for martyrdom.

Plus, he was just generally unlikeable.

"You've dealt with worse," Harry reminded his godfather offhandedly as he flipped the page. "And who cares about Pierce? He'll cry foul no matter what we do — might as well make it worth it."

Sirius groaned as he rubbed his forehead tiredly. "It's not that simple, Harry. Even the most idiotic of people can get riled up into a frenzy if properly hacked off, which this is guaranteed to do."

"So don't tell them."

Sirius blinked, certain he'd misheard. "I beg your pardon?"

Harry finally stopped his reading, put the file back down on the desk, and fixed his godfather with a stern glare. "Did I stutter? Don't let the public know," he repeated himself.

"That's absurd! You want me to cover up a massive intelligence operation?" Sirius demanded. Harry's response, however expected, nonetheless shocked him deeply.

"Yes," his godson replied simply. "Face it, Sirius, we're on the brink right now — hell, we never left it. As we speak, twenty-seven high-yield explosives, the likes of which we've only seen when Taylor's precious forces were utterly destroyed by one such device, are now lying in wait throughout the country...and we've no idea who put them there or why they haven't already used them."

He tapped a finger on the report on Josefina's operation tellingly. "Leverage, perhaps?" he mused. "Financial gain? Political motives? Racism? Who knows?...and that's the problem," he reminded his godfather. "_We don't know_. We don't know _how_ they got into our territory without us noticing, we don't know _why_ the bombs were placed in our territory, we don't know _where_ they _are_, and we don't know _who_ put them there. All we know is some corrupt wanker _knew_ something about it, and we had him killed over an unrelated matter. So yes, Sirius, Xeno _has_ been granted full authorization to pursue and interrogate any and all leads pertaining to this incident, and I fully expect _you_ to cover for him when needed."

The terrifying thing about his godson's speech, Sirius reflected, was the way he'd said it. Utterly calm and imperturbable, and yet with a clear undertone of cold fury at presiding over such a colossal cock-up.

"This is a slippery slope, Harry," Sirius warned his godson regardless. "Today it's a minor cover-up for a rough interrogation, a week from now it's a full fledged media blackout to avoid having the press know we tortured someone. Is that really the sort of people we want to become?"

"And that's why I rely on you, Sirius, to keep Xeno's leash." Harry noted humorlessly. "Make sure it never gets that far, and we're all good."

Sirius gaped at his godson, hardly believing how callous he was sounding. Was he even aware of how utterly _wrong_ his orders were? Sure, they were on the brink of a major terrorist strike of cataclysmic proportions, but it hardly justified committing war crimes in _peace time_. Still, it was clear that his godson wouldn't budge on this issue, so not one to waste his time, Sirius merely gave a grim nod.

"Very well, I'll see to it," he acquiesced.

* * *

_**Manchester, Northern Territories, October 10th, 2011...**_

Josefina sighed. Another day, another futile raid on a suspected terrorist cell.

"Agent Nightshade," a trooper came up to her and saluted, as befitting her (technical) rank of Lieutenant. Though normally unnecessary, her rank did allow her access to certain areas and information that would otherwise look curious on paper. "No sign so far of links to the bombs," he reported. "However, these traitors _do_ seem to be affiliated with the Leeds communist extremists."

Josefina swept her gaze over the kneeling prisoners kept to one side — a motley crew, to be sure. Men and women of every age were kept under steady supervision by a couple of troopers while the rest of her assigned squad of special forces soldiers tore the hideout apart for any clues.

She groaned at the news, however, palming her forehead in irritation. Another miss. "Pointless," she muttered. "Call in the locals and have them pick these idiots up," she told the soldier as she leaped off the crate she'd been sitting on. "And pack things up. We're done here."

"With all due respect, sir, there's still a large amount of intelligence we could gather," the trooper protested calmly.

"The Leeds cell is low-priority," Josefina pointed out. "It's a job for the local bobbies, not us. Let them sort through it."

The trooper nodded and saluted. "Understood, sir," he responded evenly before turning and returning to his squadmates. As she watched him do so, she pulled out her special phone from her pocket and quickly dialed up a specific number.

Within seconds, she heard a familiar voice greet her. "_Liverpool Gourmet Delivery Service, how may I help you?_" a cheery sounding woman said.

"Agent Nightshade reporting in," she spoke in low tones, an eye peeled to make sure none of the troopers — or worse, their prisoners — overheard her. "Identification Code Sigma-Isis-Sigma-Alpha-Oh-Oh-Three-Two."

"_One moment please..._" the cheery voice turned deadly serious. "_...Agent Nightshade, identification verified. How may we be of service, Agent?_"

"Reporting in from raid on Manchester terrorist cell Alpha-Four," she stated plainly. "No evidence to suggest the cell had anything to do with the bombs."

"_...Understood, Agent._" the voice acknowledged. "_Are you ready for your next assignment?_"

Josefina sighed. Never a moment's rest, it seemed. Not that it wasn't obvious why — with twenty-seven bombs primed to explode somewhere around the Northern Territories, there really was no opportunity for downtime. "Yes," she replied simply.

"_One moment, please,_" the voice said. A pregnant pause passed then, before the voice came back. "_Agent Nightshade, your orders follow: SIS has uncovered the presence of another potential terrorist cell near to your location. Agent Autumn was tasked with leading the takedown operation, but has since failed to report in. Your mission is to complete Agent Autumn's mission and find out Autumn's whereabouts and status. Detailed information regarding this mission will be downloaded to your PDA._"

There was no need to add the underlining guess that Autumn was probably dead. Josefina had been on enough missions for Harry to know that her own streak of coming out of missions relatively unharmed was something of a rarity. "Understood," she replied. "What about backup?"

"_Command has determined that you should require no more than the current SAS detail you already possess, Agent. Good luck. Headquarters out._"

And just like that, Josefina was prevented from pointing out that if Autumn had died with a similar detail on hand, then her own chances were pretty slim, too. Sighing, Josefina's shoulders sagged as she knew there was nothing for it. Protesting, in truth, was just a pointless exercise. Unless Xeno or Harry were on the other end of that line, there was no reason for any other SIS bureaucrat or handler to care what she thought. As far as they were all concerned, she was just another SIS agent, _not _the Northern leader's personal operative.

"Captain, we're moving out!" she called out to the trooper who'd protested against her initial decision to leave. Even as the Captain gave a grunt of assent and barked at his troops to move faster in clearing things up, she heard her wrist-strapped PDA vibrate ever so slightly. Pulling back her sleeve, she uncovered the slim, metallic object and brought out its integrated keyboard. Typing with practised ease, she watched as the necessary mission information began streaming on its screen.

"Cheetham Hill. _Perfect._" she groaned. While the area had managed to recover from its former reputation as a "bad neighborhood" — merited or not — under the Northern government, the civil war had seen the return — with a vengeance — of scoundrels and lowlifes to the area. To such a point, indeed, that the police held weekly raids to keep them in line.

On the flip side, at least it wasn't that far, and their armored car was still in one piece, so walking wasn't an issue.

Still, something felt wrong about the mission. For one thing, Autumn was most likely dead, which meant resistance wasn't just a probability, but rather a guarantee. Furthermore, if they were brazen enough to attack and kill an SAS squad and their SIS handler, then it probably meant these were the guys Josefina had been hunting from Day 1.

"Captain, got a map of the area?" she asked the SAS detachment leader as he walked up to her. The man nodded and brought out a repeatedly folded map from his pocket and handed it over. Searching for their current and future location, she quickly came to a decision regarding deployment. "Are there any capable snipers in our squad?"

The captain nodded immediately. "Rogers and Stevens," the soldier answered simply. "Stevens more so than Rogers."

Eyeing the reported last location of Agent Autumn and her squad, Josefina nodded, pleased. "Good. This is our next target," she informed the man as she pointed it out. "I want both Rogers and Stevens on the rooftops opposite the building ready to provide covering fire. Meanwhile, you'll take a detachment and assault the building from the rear while I handle the front door."

"Enemy resistance?"

"Practically guaranteed," Josefina stated without needing further prompting. "Another agent and her team fell off the grid there."

The captain's expression, already grim by nature, somehow managed to become even more so. "Understood."

* * *

Josefina hated it when she was right in these situations.

Ducking behind the slight cover a pillar at the bottom of the flat's stairs offered, she practically felt the bullet whiz by as the terrorists she'd correctly judged being here opened up on the entrance like their life depended on it.

Which, coincidentally enough, it did.

"Special Intelligence Service! Throw down your weapons and surrender!" Josefina shouted up at them, despite the futility of such an action. Still, Xeno's goddamn protocol _was_ protocol; if she didn't go through with the declaration, he'd have her chastised publicly, no doubt.

For a moment, silence descended on the flat, no doubt as a result of the terrorists' stupefaction that the agent they were firing on was expecting them to obey after having nearly killed her deliberately.

"Drop dead, Northern scum!" she heard one finally shout out before opening fire with his automatic, once again peppering the entrance of the flat with very lethal armor-piercing rounds. Fortunately, her small amount of cover took her out of the majority of those bullets' trajectories.

"You first," she muttered as she carefully brought up her hand to her earpiece. "Whenever you're feeling ready, Captain!"

"_Roger. Breaching in 3...2...1..._"

On cue, a loud blast could be heard on the second landing, followed by shouting and the familiar noise of Northern-issued automatics opening fire on the enemy. Without a moment of hesitation, she dashed up the stairs — taking special care to avoid looking at all the holes surrounding her — and slammed herself back into the corner wall just as a stray bullet rammed itself opposite her.

"Captain, moving up from the stairwell!" she shouted.

"Roger that! Fireteam Charlie, covering fire!" she heard the man shout dimly over the din of the firefight. "Agent Nightshade, go!"

Trusting the man who'd covered her ass on more than one operation since this whole debacle started, she dashed out of cover and ran into a large, open room that had clearly been remodeled that way. One could still see where superficial walls had been torn down to make room for extra space, and fortunately these remains served as excellent cover against the terrorist morons she'd been tasked with taking down.

Sliding behind one such piece of broken down wall, she gave a nod to a nearby soldier. "Pierce, status report!" she ordered.

The man deftly ducked down just as one terrorist madman opened fire from the hip in their direction, spraying the wall behind them with bullet holes but otherwise doing no damage to their unit.

"Ma'am!" Pierce greeted her with a sly grin. "Tossers were caught with their trousers down!" He winced as a piece of ceramic from their cover broke off near his head, courtesy of a stray bullet. "Cap's over there!" he jutted his thumb to their left, causing Josefina to turn and look. As Pierce had said, the Captain was practically a monument to either insane bravery or monumental stupidity as he stood above cover and fired his service pistol at the enemy with a look of utter calm.

For some strange reason, that just made the terrorists all the more reluctant to fire at him.

It was at that point, however, that a glint off one of the terrorists' guns caught her eye. Instantly making the connection, she motioned towards the captain to get down and cupped her hand over her mouth.

"Captain! They're in line of sight of the windows!"

Apparently trusting her word on this, the captain wasted no time to reach up to his earpiece. "Rogers, Stevens! Open fire!"

Not even a beat had passed before the windows emitted a sharp crack as the bullets pierced right through, instantly ending the lives of two terrorists, followed quickly by two more.

Quick on the uptake, the captain rose to his feet again and fired his weapon at one of the enemy militia who'd been stunned by the sudden development. The man dropped like a sack of potatoes, half of his face missing from the explosive round. "Now!" the captain roared. "Take them all, lads!"

With a fierce cry that Josefina wanted no part of — her own presence in the fighting mostly being superficial anyway — the soldiers rose from their cover and drew the terrorists' attention back to them, just as Rogers and Stevens dropped another pair of enemy combatants.

For her part, Josefina knew she had bigger fish to fry. While the captain and his section had fun taking down enemies of the North, she had bombs to find; and lucky for her, the captain's push had driven the enemy towards the far end of the room, leaving a previously innocuous door completely unguarded. In fact, the walled off area it led to seemed to be the only one that had survived the extensive remodelling of the flat without having load-bearing walls.

Rolling towards it, she quickly went for the door handle, her other hand ready to fire her weapon if need be, and pulled down on it. Then, with a push, she quickly pulled back her hand from the door frame in case someone had remained inside and shot at her. Fortunately, nothing of the sort happened, essentially telling her that either there _was _someone inside who wasn't a total rookie, or all the enemy combatants were in the main room, fighting it out with the captain and his section.

Taking a deep breath, and remaining quite kneeled — being that a standing target was a large target — she inched herself towards the very edge of the door frame and spun into the room, slamming herself back into the wall, her pistol up and ready to fire right back. Nothing.

Letting out a relieved sigh, she got up and, noting the darkness of the room — which seemed to have no windows — she clicked on the torch nestled underneath the barrel of her gun and searched the room.

She didn't have to search long.

Sitting right in front of her, completely unprotected, was perhaps the single most terrifying object she'd ever seen; and not because of its look.

The bomb had been turned on.

With an ominous beep on every second that passed, she watched as the digital counter on the face of the cylindrical object counted down from forty-five minutes. Feeling the instinctual panic within her start to rise, she quickly crushed it down and began desperately doing the math; disabling it herself was out of the question — she had zero training in bomb disposal. Bringing in a team would take time, especially since none of their usual containment gear would survive Apparation or Portkey. Getting one in from Manchester was the quickest of options, but according to her memory the nearest _trained_ squad of magical bomb disposal experts were in Liverpool. Given the fact that before now only _one_ had _ever_ existed, and was detonated almost as soon as the North had gotten its hands on it, there wasn't much to train more with, other than theoretical work.

That left containment. Get as many people out of the blast radius as possible while the bomb crew flew in as quickly as possible.

Realizing she was burning critical time, she went for her earpiece. "Captain, code black; I say again, code black," she stated as calmly as she could — which wasn't that much. "Timer's at forty-five minutes; confirm."

There was static for a moment before the familiar voice of the captain spoke up. "_...Understood. Terrorists have been incapacitated; we're calling in the situation._"

"That may not be good enough," she remarked dryly. "I'm calling it; By my authority, initiate Code Black caveat Two-B, evacuation procedures. On the double."

It was a drastic call to make, but she was one of the few people alive in the Northern Territories who could make it; Harry trusted her judgment that much.

"_Roger that,_" the captain answered neutrally. A few seconds later, he was back on the line. "_We've called it in and I've got Rogers, Stevens, Parker, and Gates starting evacuation procedures while we wait for a government extraction team,_" he reported. "_What do we do about the prisoners?_"

"Guard them, I'm on my way to you," Josefina stated, working on the vain hope that maybe one of those chuckleheads would know how to stop the infernal machine before her. She quickly made her way out of the room at a brisk pace, unwilling to show these terrorists how utterly terrified she was to be in point-blank range of a bomb, and glowered at them as soon as they came into view, the captain and Pierce standing over their kneeling forms vigilantly.

"Which of you assholes turned that bomb on?" she demanded without preamble. Pleasantries wouldn't get her anywhere with a ticking time bomb on hand.

As she expected, however, the small group of surviving terrorists refused to answer, prompting her to take out her holstered sidearm and point it at the nearest terrorist's leg.

"I won't ask a third time; who turned on the bloody bomb?" she hissed out. Silence.

A shot rang out, followed by a scream. "The next one goes into the other leg," she warned the sobbing terrorist on the ground and his compatriots. "And then the arms. And anywhere else I can think of that won't kill you immediately, so start talking."

It took five more shots before the terrorists began getting really nervous about their captor, who made no sign of stopping her use of them as target practice. Unfortunately for Josefina, she counted this whole exercise as having cost them ten minutes. At least the others in the squad were hard at work evacuating the nearby region, judging from the panicked screaming outside.

As she returned her attention to the terrorists, she raised her sidearm once more — without a word of protest coming from the captain or Pierce — and aimed it at the sole female member of the group, this time aiming right at her head.

"Wait!" one of the wounded men yelled in panic.

"Shut it, Bennett!" another one groaned out through the pain.

"Sod off, Burns!" Bennett snapped before turning his attention to the female prisoner, who was obviously pleading with him with her eyes to shut up. "I'm...sorry, Amy...I...I can't watch them kill you."

And here it was at last. The weak link in the group. Josefina had to employ near-superhuman restraint to prevent herself from showing a feral grin. "Good. Lieutenant Pierce, please take the young lady away," she directed as she holstered her sidearm. "If Mr. Bennett won't talk, kill her."

"Yes, sir!" Pierce responded immediately with a salute before bending down, grabbing the woman's restraints, and pulling her away from the group's line of sight, ignoring the woman's desperate screaming.

"Wait, wait, wait!" Bennett was shouting. "I'll tell you what you want to know! Just leave Amy alone!"

"That entirely depends on what you tell me, Mr. Bennett," Josefina told him in a faux-sweet tone as she squatted to his eyeline. "So? Who turned it on?"

"Bennett, you traitorous wanker, don't you d—!" another one started to shout, only to be immediately silenced by the sound of a gunshot, followed by a sick, squishy sound. The captain had put a round through the man's head.

Josefina carefully masked her revulsion at the sight with cold indifference, jutting her thumb at the new corpse as she eyed Bennett. "See that? That's your lady friend if I don't get an answer to my question in the next five seconds."

That did it. "It was one of the masters!" he couldn't yell out fast enough. "H-He came here last night, said we'd done well in keeping the bomb safe, but that the time was at hand for the North to fall! He turned on the bomb and then disappeared!" he added before sobbing. "Please don't hurt Amy!"

Two things made Josefina's trained mental alarms ring frantically. One was the presence of these so-called masters, and the second was the peculiar way Bennett had described their leaving. Most people would've just said "left," but he'd used "disappeared."

That smelled like magic.

"Can you turn it off?" she asked as she grabbed a fistful of his shirt and drew him close, her glare narrowed dangerously. "Can any of you turn that damn thing off?" she demanded.

Bennett shook his head shakingly, no doubt aware that any lack of cooperation would see him and Amy dead. Angrily, Josefina threw him back before getting up and kicking at a nearby bullet-ridden crate.

"DAMNIT!" she yelled.

"Agent Nightshade, given this information, we should evacuate as soon as possible," the captain noted neutrally, his eyes still on his prisoners. "We have twenty-five minutes left and the bomb squad hasn't arrived. The odds of stopping this device are quite low."

Josefina was inclined to agree, but a thought struck her then. Turning back to Bennett, she fixed him with a heated glare. "Who was this master?" she asked dangerously. "What was his name?"

"I...I d-don't know..." it was a poor attempt at lying, and Josefina saw through it immediately. Raising her hand, she went for her earpiece.

"Pierce, our friend here is being uncooperative," she stated coldly, causing Bennett a panic attack as they immediately heard Amy begin to scream and sob.

"Wait! WAIT!" Bennett cried out, though his remaining comrades seemed peeved at his newfound decision to betray their masters. Irritated by the sudden onslaught of vulgarities and random yelling, Josefina glanced at the captain and nodded.

Three shots rang out. Three more bodies fell to the ground.

"My patience is wearing thin, Mr. Bennett," Josefina told him icily. A blind man could see that the remaining terrorist was on the verge of passing out from horror at his captors' brutality.

"T-This isn't what they'd said you'd do! W-We're prisoners of war!" he exclaimed suddenly, only to cry out as the captain shot him in the foot.

Josefina was indifferent. "Wrong," she said. "You're terrorists. Rebels. You're the scum trying to sacrifice thousands, if not millions of lives. You're the idiots trying to bring down the North's message of stability," she told him in a soft tone drowned in tempered anger. "Now I'll ask once more: who was it?"

"M-Master..." he tried to get out, but was seemingly struggling with himself to answer. "C...Crouch."

Josefina's eyes widened immediately, instantly recognizing the name. "_Death Eaters_," she hissed in disgust. Raising her hand to her earpiece, she called up Pierce. "Pierce. Kill her."

Bennett turned desperate then. "NO! Please! You said if I cooperated—"

A female scream pierced the air then, followed by a gunshot and then silence. "That was before you sold us out to the _animals_ who started this civil war," she hissed at him. "Captain."

Another shot, and Bennett was on the ground.

Without giving the bodies a second look, she got to her feet and made to leave, hearing Pierce come back into the room. "We're leaving. Get to the nearest government team and help out. I've got to report back to HQ."

The two soldiers knew better than to argue with her at this point, and merely nodded. "Yes, sir!"

* * *

_**Liverpool, Northern Territories, October 11th, 2011...**_

If the bomb squad could defend anything they did during the Cheetham Hill Event, it was that at least they'd managed to get a good look at the bomb before it inevitably detonated.

When it did, however, most of the immediate surroundings vanished in a flash of light, and within mere minutes, Manchester had gone dark. Panic, as one might expect, quickly spread throughout the Northern hierarchy as one of the three major cities of its patrimony suddenly fell off the radar, and entire regiments were dispatched to find out what had happened.

It wasn't until the next day, however, that any sort of report could be made — and when it _did_ arrive, some of the fears the Northern brass' had held were confirmed.

Manchester had lost any and all technological equipment during the aftermath of the surprisingly contained explosion. This was, naturally, in addition to a horrific casualty toll of four thousand civilian deaths — the unlucky few who'd either refused to evacuate (under the false belief that this was a government trick to weed them out) or hadn't made it to a government extraction team on time, as well as a couple of military helicopter crews who'd been on patrol in the nearby vicinity.

And that was just the initial toll. With the loss of power or powered transportation, anyone in an emergency ward of a hospital, an operating room, or with a pacemaker would die within moments.

It was, without doubt, one of the most, if not the singular most devastating terrorist strike on British soil since the Death Eater attacks over a year ago.

And naturally, Harry was enraged beyond comprehension.

He wasn't the only one, unfortunately. Most of the populace, now realizing what the hell was going on, had begun crying foul against the Northern government. Most of their protests centered around the fact that the supposed victors of the civil war had cocked-up so hard as to allow a massive bomb to go off within spitting distance of the nation's capital. If that had been all, Harry would've been glad, but unfortunately even the crazies on the fringe like Clive Pierce were benefitting from the bombing fallout. Arguing that this was retribution from on high for the sins of the government (or some secular variant of such nonsense), the fringe protest groups were beginning to attract detractors by the dozens. Enough so that more than once Harry ordered a battalion to deal with them.

In short, things were definitely not looking well for the North, and the fact that twenty-six of them were still on the loose was more than worrisome.

Even worse, Josefina had let her anger get the better of her and killed the only person able to identify the man who'd started the bomb. Oh, sure, she'd gotten a name, but he wasn't as eager to believe that the Death Eaters had somehow managed to get their hands on twenty-seven prototype bombs that only the Weasley woman and her people had known about.

Even when the inevitable letter saying "We did it" came via a known sympathizer group of the Death Eaters (which had been almost hunted to extinction by Xeno's kill teams), he hadn't bought it. The problem was, everyone else did.

"We have no choice!" Speirs was shouting in the midst of Harry's hastily gathered council of advisors. "This attack is the last straw; either we attack them now, or we risk a repeat!"

"The populace demands retribution; how could we possibly sit on our hands at a time like this?" a man from Speirs' retinue weighed in, no doubt in an attempt to force everyone in the room to hear a rehash of his leader's seconds-before speech.

Harry quickly put a stop to that, thankfully. "Enough," he said, the tired undertone of his voice not even faked. Pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration, Harry took a deep breath before speaking up. "What's the casualty toll at now?" he asked.

"Four thousand, three hundred and sixty-two," Sirius answered softly, his own expression marred by traumatic disbelief. "And that's not the final count."

"Damages?" Harry followed up.

"In the billions of pounds," his father answered. "Cheetham Hill is pretty much unlivable at this point. No telling when we'll be able to repopulate it."

"Infrastructure?"

"Neutered," his father answered again. "Hospitals without power, traffic systems offline, underground lines not running, and all telecommunications are out," he summed up the salient points. "Even our water pumps have stopped working. Manchester's been driven back to the stone age."

Harry sighed, unable to believe that he'd have to witness and live through _two_ separate Death Eater attacks on his nation, and _both times_ be unable to stop them from happening.

"Why did this happen?" he asked the group in front of him, his head bowed but his shoulders trembling in distinctly restrained anger. "We had the numbers, the technology...so how did _TWENTY SEVEN_" he roared, having finally snapped, "_FUCKING BOMBS_ _GET INTO OUR HOMES?_"

No one had an answer for him, not even Speirs' quite-vocal aide. If nothing else, it seemed most were too ashamed to speak up — something Harry welcomed. If they felt shame, it meant they _knew_ they'd cocked-up.

"Even worse, we have to hear about this bloody situation from a man we called a hit on for completely unrelated reasons!" Harry continued..

Still, as angry as he was, Harry knew he had to give his people a chance to explain themselves, and so leaned his throbbing head against his fist. "So," he started again. "Answers. Now."

More than one person seemed surprised at the fact that he'd actually planned to let them speak. Those closest to Harry, however, were not. This hadn't been the first time he'd exploded like this, nor was it likely to be the last.

"We still don't know how they breached our border security," Curtis spoke up, looking mildly impressed by Harry's rather foul language during his rant. To be fair, it'd been the first time she'd been exposed to so much of it. "The garrisons along the wall have been reporting nothing but all-clear's."

"And the Navy...what's left of it, anyway," Speirs weighed in, allowing for the fact that most of the Royal Navy was sunk at the moment. "Hasn't caught anyone trying to smuggle in products via the usual lanes for some time now."

"Port Authority is the most likely breach," Xeno opined, the older man rubbing the bridge of his nose wearily. "If I were them, I'd have snuck the bombs onboard in international waters and then bribed some PA inspector to look the other way."

"And why wasn't this potential breach investigated beforehand?" demanded Harry, not budging an inch. Even so, the gathered officials and military officers could see that he was duly processing all the information they gave him.

"Short answer? Lack of manpower," his father replied, having weathered his own son's rant quite well. Then again, he'd have been quite hypocritical if he'd tried to chastise him for his attitude. Not to mention horribly insubordinate, considering their respective positions of power. "We're stretched thin; the Civil Service isn't capable of sending out more auditors and quality inspectors because we're damned well overbooked for the next few _months_."

"The Armed Forces can't spare men either," Speirs informed Harry next with a shrug. "Even with our recruitment drives, it's all we can do just to keep the country properly defended from our _visible_ enemies. If we pile on saboteurs and terrorists on top of that..." he left the supposition hanging, though everyone caught on.

"Not to mention our police forces," Sirius added in. "Ever since we've semi-centralized policing, we've managed to keep a tighter leash on problematic units, but it's still a far ways off from returning to pre-war capabilities."

Harry sighed as he cupped his forehead, his headache aching a hell of a lot more now. "Alright, alright," he conceded as he held up his free hand in a stopping motion. "We're looking at this the wrong way," he concluded. "Forget how we missed this. We now have a solid lead on who _might_ have done this. However, _how_ do they benefit?"

"Well, it fits their MO, doesn't it?" one of his father's aides commented. "Look at the London strikes last year; they striked at anything in sight."

"Yes, but those attacks were were also coordinated such that the first strike would be against a vital facility. This one was just pure terror," Sirius pointed out. "Furthermore, while catastrophic, this attack doesn't exactly deprive us of anything we can't replace, except for the lost lives. Military HQ is based here in Liverpool, as is the Civil Service and the Executive. The economy is largely based in Sheffield, and we all know the Assembly just meets wherever the hell we tell them to."

"I concur with Councilor White," Curtis spoke up before flashing the slightly older man with a grin. "Manchester's sole strategic value is its people; many of our troopers are, in fact, Mancunians. Other than the morale drop we're likely to suffer as a result of this attack, I can't really see a practical reason for this attack."

"A reason I'm still not quite convinced the Death Eaters are behind this," Harry noted, glaring at those amongst his advisors who looked about ready to argue against him. "Which, if true, means there's a third player on the loose we're not seeing," Harry summed up, much to the discomfiture of those present. The idea of _another_ capable enemy aiming to bring down all they had worked for was too horrible to contemplate. "Before we get into that, though, what's the news on the remaining devices? Have you found any?" he asked Xeno directly, his sharp gaze threatening angry outbursts if he got negative answers.

Unfortunately, that was exactly what Xeno had to offer.

"Nothing," the head of intelligence reported as he spread his hands powerlessly. "Not a shred of information has turned up about the rest's actual location. After Nightshade reported in after the Cheetham Hill event, we tore Abney's residence apart, but all Abney was involved in was actually bringing them into the country. Someone else must have taken charge of distributing them."

"Any leads?"

Xeno shrugged. "Nothing concrete, but we're still digging hard."

Harry growled. "How much time do we have?" he then asked.

"Unknown as well. Nightshade reported that no pertinent information regarding an activation time could be found," Xeno recited off memory. "Again, it is likely that Abney was kept in the dark regarding the most important aspects of the operation, and her prisoner's testimony seems to corroborate this hypothesis. It's more than likely the puppet masters are detonating the devices at a whim."

"So, to sum up," Harry's voice rose a little with every pronunciated word. By now, his eyes were completely concealed by his own hand, which seemed to be tightly grasped around his upper face. "We don't know where the bombs are. We don't know how they got in...and more importantly, _we don't know when they're set to go off?_" he shouted again, causing those less accustomed to him to flinch, with some even wondering if he'd leaked out some magic to make his voice sound all the louder.

Thankfully, the walls were quite proofed against sound leaving the room, or else the rest of the _city block_ might have heard Harry's outburst.

"I believe..." Joshua spoke up then, catching everyone's hopeful attention, as perhaps the career politician and diplomat might have a way to defuse their superior's rage. "That maybe we are viewing the situation incorrectly," he mused out loud.

"Explain," came the short, terse order from Harry.

"Logically speaking, if the Death Eaters did this, and the bombs are in place, then why haven't all of them already been set off?" asked Warwick. "Even if most of them aren't, and we don't know whether _any_ of the remaining devices are, detonating just a few now that Cheetham Hill happened should've been a no-brainer, and certainly would've distracted us long enough to set off the others without much hindrance."

Harry's attention swiveled over to Xeno once more. "Well?" he prompted.

The spymaster was silent as he contemplated Warwick's scenario. "He's right," the mage agreed at length. "There's been too much delay in the time between smuggling and detonation to _not_ be anomalous, especially if we're operating under the assumption that the Death Eaters are responsible."

"But _if _it _isn't_ a plot to detonate the bombs...then what on earth are they _for_?" asked one of the permanent undersecretaries present.

A moment of silence passed again, with Sirius, Xeno, Harry, Joshua, and James exchanging significant glances.

"Leverage," someone spoke up then, surprising the five who'd originally been thinking along those same lines. Every head turned to look at James' undersecretary, who seemed quite possibly the most collected of them all. "It's the only thing that makes sense — why put bombs in place you don't immediately use? Logically, whoever did this wants something in return for not detonating the rest."

"Then why the lack of contact?" demanded a colleague, though this time any significant discussion was immediately cut off by Harry, who'd kept an eye on the undersecretary with something akin to respect.

"They think we're smart enough to guess," Harry stated simply before raising a hand to forestall any further discussion. "Thank you for your efforts today, gentlemen; that will be all. Any further relevant information will be passed on as necessary. Father, Uncle, Warwick, Xeno, Curtis, Speirs, please stay behind."

Slowly, the group filed out of the room, all of them softly chatting amongst themselves in what Harry guessed was an _ad hoc_ attempt at making heads or tails of the situation. Regardless of their conclusions, however, most of the decision making process would end up falling onto the shoulders of his four guests and himself.

Coming over to the other side of his desk and leaning against it, arms crossed over his chest, he put each of his trusted circle under a heavy stare. "This has Ginevra Weasley written all over it," he told them bluntly.

James blinked at the sudden declaration. "Arthur Weasley's daughter? Are you sure?" he asked, reminding the others that he hadn't been around when the petite redhead had nearly brought their plans to its knees.

Xeno, on the other hand, merely hummed in agreement, while Sirius sighed and Joshua nodded seriously. "It fits with her M.O.," agreed Xeno. "Daring, yet utilitarian. No elaborate traps or fall-backs, no wasted moves."

"But even as much trouble as she is, she hasn't got the clout to pull off gathering and hiding from the world's eye twenty-seven bombs," Sirius pointed out logically. "Even if her brother worked day and night, there's no way we wouldn't have heard of so many bombs if all she had to her name was her own faction — it's much too small."

"Agreed," Joshua weighed in. "Even the foreign ministries wouldn't have overlooked such a development, bogged down by war against their countries as they are. Someone's taken a page out of our book and used it to make her into quite the weapon against us," he eyed Harry significantly.

"It's not Dumbledore, that's for sure," Xeno said with a snort, having deduced Joshua's probable target. "That man's clout is dissipating more and more with every passing day, and he's too moral for something as underhanded as this. Even worse, I think the task of leadership has just become too much for him to bear, now that he has several nationalities and a whole slew of interests to deal with. His age is just icing on the cake."

"It doesn't matter who it is," Harry stated firmly as he fixed each person of his inner circle with a stern glare. "This situation is unbearable and untenable. If they haven't used the other bombs yet, then as Joshua pointed out they are leverage. Understand that point, gentlemen: we are being _leveraged_ by _rogue mages_."

The underlying sense of being insulted was not lost on anyone in the room.

"And regardless of their wishes, which we don't know as of yet," he fixed Xeno a disappointed stare at this, which the older man took stoically, knowing full well he'd dropped the ball on this. "We will not dance to their tune."

James narrowed his eyes at his eldest son. "What's on your mind, son?" he asked.

"Just as these mages intend to use this to get us to do whatever they want, we'll use the situation to our own advantage," Harry explained. "Let's face it; however well we've been doing thus far, we're still ridiculously overburdened with reconstruction and reconciliation efforts, made worse with the loss of technology in Manchester. This is made worse by the fact that there are some quarters that despite our victory would still see us torn down."

"No shortage of that," Sirius agreed with a snort. It was the curse of any war victor that the moment they attained what they wished, everyone else resented them for it.

"So we use this," Harry repeated himself. "We use this crisis to fuel their separatist fantasies. Get them to meet with each other. Get them out in the open, where we can take them on," Harry elaborated. "These elements are much more dangerous on the inside than on the outside, where we can destroy them at our leisure."

"And what of the Death Eaters?" asked Joshua, ever mindful of the ever-present threat to their north. "They've already once struck a blow against the nation, two if they really _are_ behind this. What's to stop them from doing it again?"

"Joshua has a point," Xeno agreed. "There's been talk of the Death Eaters gearing up for something big up north. Apparently someone's been striking at their recruitment drives with explosives," he reported as he looked towards Harry. "That's what they meant in their letter when they claimed Cheetham Hill was for 'revenge.'"

"And you failed to mention this before because...?" demanded Sirius.

"I was waiting for a time to brief Harry," Xeno retorted calmly. He didn't answer to Sirius, after all.

Harry, for his part, took in this information with narrowed eyes as he cupped his chin pensively. "Explosives?" he mused out loud. "There are dozens of spells and better ways to disrupt a meeting. Explosives are overkill."

"Perhaps the point was to make as much damage as possible?" suggested Joshua.

"To what end?" asked Sirius as he weighed in. "Just taking out the speaker would've been enough; why kill the audience, too?"

"What if we're thinking it the wrong way?" suggested Xeno. "Maybe it wasn't about the amount of damage being done, but the _manner_ in which it was done."

"You mean, that only normal folk would use explosives against mages," James deduced quickly, beating his son to the punch.

"Exactly," confirmed Xeno. "After all, explosives leave behind many indicators of their use; explosive spells don't, and a wand's a lot easier to smuggle into a meeting than a few packages of C4, meaning that its use was deliberate. Heck, from the way the explosives were apparently laid out, I would've believed one of our commando squads had taken it upon themselves to kill these people."

"Did they?" Harry turned his attention to Curtis and Speirs, who both glanced at each other before shaking their heads.

"I never ordered any such thing," Curtis stated with genuine surprise.

"Nor I," Speirs added.

"And the Wall reported no units going north?" Harry pressed.

Curtis was now firm in her head shake. "None. Ever since it was erected, the Wall's been closed shut."

"Then we've been set up," concluded Joshua. "Someone pinned those attacks on us, hoping, successfully as it turns out, that the Death Eaters would seek revenge, then, if Harry's right, set off a bomb here using the name Crouch in order to get us to seek revenge on the Death Eaters."

"A classic diminution tactic," Speirs noted. "And ingeniously done. This wasn't some amateur hour gamble."

James nodded. "Whoever it was had the time and resources to plan this out thoroughly. Given that, I think it's high time we face the fact that we may not be privy to the identities of all the mages' insiders in our government."

Harry fixed Xeno with a look. "Xeno," the man sat upright. "That's your new assignment. Weed these traitorous pieces of trash out, then publicly execute them," he stated. "Let the people have their scapegoats."

The order didn't seem to sit well with some of his officials, but Xeno nodded and got to his feet. "As you say," he stated simply before leaving the room, having heard the implied dismissal in Harry's words.

Harry then stared at the rest of his council. "That leaves an appropriate Cheetham Hill response in the air," he noted. "So, ideas. How do we respond to this incident?"

Once again, the room exploded with sound as the debate began anew with renewed vigor.

* * *

_**Ground Zero, Cheetham Hill, Manchester, Northern Territories, October 23, 2011...**_

A week and a half is how long it took for the government to react, much to the stupefaction of the populace. Most would have thought that the only logical response would have been an immediate declaration of war against the perpetrator (whoever it might have been), but the government had refused to do so for all this time, managing to raise quite a few hackles.

And then the announcement came, and that anger bled away, for the most part.

As it turned out, the government had been carrying out an extensive census of the Cheetham Hill casualties, their families, and anyone else who'd perished after the immediate blast. They'd been contacting families, tracking down heirs, and making arrangements for one massive funeral, to be performed on the Sunday of the 23rd, right at Ground Zero.

The harshest cynics called it a ploy of the government to distract the people from very real issues — an accusation not well received by survivors of the bombing, or the populace at large. It would've made the former giddy, however, and the latter outraged, that there _was_ an element of truth in those accusations.

Having established at the meeting that the likely perpetrators of the attack weren't the Death Eaters, but rather a discreet attempt at getting the North and Death Eaters to kill each other off, Harry had decided to toy with the third party's machinations by going about the declaration of war in a rather roundabout manner. Preparations, for all appearances, were either going excruciatingly slowly or not at all.

The funeral, of course, was just another way of flipping the bird at the supposed third party; a way of telling them that the North would act according to its own timetable, not someone else's. Naturally, the fact that twenty-six bombs still existed served to temper how far they would go, and the slow preparations served to acknowledge that they'd gotten the hint.

The mass funeral itself was held right at Ground Zero, which had been flattened by Military Mages and made appropriately green by sanctioned herbologists. All four thousand seven hundred fifty-two caskets were neatly arranged before the mass crowds, each of them next to an open grave. A massive crowd ringed the burial area, and thousands more would watch from their homes or listen to the service via radio as the (authorized) media transmitted the proceedings live.

At the very front of the gathering, with a clear view of the field of graves, was a large platform, specially erected to allow for speakers to say their piece and the invited clergy to provide a religious service. As expected, the first speaker was, naturally, Harry Potter himself.

Wearing his dress uniform, with a visible black band of cloth tied around his right arm in an overt sign of mourning, the _de facto _leader of the Northern Territories reluctantly extricated himself from the grasp of his fiancee, who'd been holding on to his right arm in a comforting gesture. Elicia, herself dressed all in black, gave Harry an encouraging smile as she watched him slowly make his way to the proffered podium, his hands shaking ever so slightly in very real emotion. Only she and perhaps his parents knew that Harry had wept bitterly every night since the attacks, clearly blaming himself for not having managed to outwit the people who'd detonated the bomb. Elicia had done her very best to comfort him and keep him emotionally grounded, but she knew best of all that the attack had decisively shaken his faith in himself.

"Honored friends," Harry began, reading from the pre-written speech on the podium before pausing. "I..." he shook his head. "No...my fellow brothers and sisters," he began anew, much to the anxiousness of his associates on the platform, who weren't too happy at seeing their leader deviate from the planned speech. "For that is what we all are, in this time of grief; brothers and sisters, brought together by the bonds of tragedy."

"We are gathered here today, as you may well know, not just to bury our fallen, but to pay tribute to the lost," he continued. "Not just those of today, but to all those we have lost over the past year; to the Death Eater attacks, to the war in Spain, to the civil war...all of them. All those lives, snuffed out in an instant, the victims of greater powers than they knew; all pawns in the schemes of the uncaring few."

"But who am I to criticize the way they acted?" he asked rhetorically. "My enemies say I am no better, a tyrant legitimized by war, and perhaps they are right. Behind me lie four thousand, seven hundred fifty-two failures that attest to that. Four thousand, seven hundred fifty-two monuments to my hubris. How can I possibly justify that? What could I possibly say to make things right with you, my brothers and sisters, when I have failed you so?"

"I rose to power on the platform that I would bring stability to our lives; having already had much of it robbed from us by xenophobes, racists, and tyrants. I swore before all those who followed me that I would bring peace to our troubled nation, but I now stand before you a liar, a fraud proven wrong by his enemies," he added, and Elicia, sitting almost directly behind Harry's standing form, could see that to either side of her, the other officials (excluding Sirius, James, Joshua, Speirs, Curtis, and Xeno) were becoming quite agitated. "And I cannot offer anything in restitution."

"Nothing, except my life," he then added, and more than one person sucked in their breath at that. "Not my death, mind," he then said with a self-deprecating smile. "But my life. At this moment, and before the needless victims of terror, I swear to you all — the living — that I will not rest; I will not _stop_, until those responsible for this have been brought down."

There wasn't any applause; there didn't have to be, and more to the point, it would have been inappropriate.

"That is why," he continued, knowing he had everyone's attention. "as of this moment, I am declaring the ruling council's decision: having found ample evidence of their involvement in the attacks" A blatant, if necessary lie. "The Northern Territories, as a legal, independent nation hereby declares war on the Death Eaters."

As Harry walked back to his seat, allowing for the clerics to begin their funerary rites, he knew he'd reached his people; he'd seen it in their eyes as he'd communicated the declaration of war. He didn't need a fancy speech, or elaborate mind tricks; he'd appealed right to their anger. Their righteous anger at having been so callously attacked in their own homes.

Now he would use that anger. He would kindle it into a firestorm, let it loose on his enemies, and then no one would remain who would try to control him.

The final war of the Northern Territories' ascendancy had begun.


	18. Chapter XVI: Pride and Priorities

_**AN: **_** _So yeah, part 1 of the Anglo-Death Eater War is up. Part 2 will deal with a major breakthrough in Mage-Human warfare and the effective end of Death Eater power (though not of our favourite Inner Circle members just yet). After that, I'll likely as not include a small time skip, and then the European War will be upon us. Cheers to all of you who've stuck with this story so far - your patience is admirable._**

**_Cheers,_**

**_Marquis Black_**

* * *

Enough was enough.

That was the feeling permeating most of the Northern Territories' battered population. Following the detonation of the Cheetham Hill bomb, a massive outcry of popular outrage, fueled by the pent-up fury of an exasperated population fed up with having their homes attacked, had driven the government to the only logical course of action — war.

Yet, despite the intentions of the Cheetham Hill Incident's architects, war did not come immediately. Though the sentiment for it demanded immediate retribution, it wasn't until the words left Harry Potter's lips at the memorial service for the attack's victims, a full week and a half later, that the sentiment became reality.

And ten-thousand sons of the North marched into Death Eater territory, bloody-minded vengeance foremost in their minds and hearts.

Harry did little to dissuade those feelings, naturally. Why should he, when it saved him the need for inspirational speech-making and heroics? By kindling and, indeed, _fanning_ the flames of their hatred, Harry made sure that the troopers who marched north of the Babylon Wall would give the campaign their all come what may. Whole media campaigns, aided by their sown instigators within the populace, were dedicated to playing with the people's feelings of indignation and vengeance-lust.

Of course, getting them there was a whole 'nother matter entirely.

For one thing, the logistical train for this army was nothing short of a nightmare to arrange. Harry must've seen his father maybe thirty times in the two weeks prior to the declaration of war, each time with a new crisis on their hands. There wasn't enough foodstuffs; the Babylon Wall shorted out every piece of technology that crossed its anti-Apparation wards; the bureaucrats weren't delivering payments on time (that one ended with Sirius himself firing the bumbling perpetrators and having them investigated for corruption and potential treason); Speirs and Curtis were fighting over leadership of the assignment, and so forth.

In short, Harry spent those weeks driven to the brink of madness by the amount of inefficiency that had sprung up following the Cheetham Hills Incident.

Fortunately, he did have an anchor he could rely on — someone who would keep him propped up when he just felt like letting things go. The woman who would someday soon be his wife.

Still, Fate hadn't made him her whipping boy for nothing, and as such Elicia was soon recalled back to the Research and Development division to work on some new doohickey that was supposed to "revolutionize modern society." Like he hadn't heard _that_ one before.

Although, granted, the last time she'd said that, they'd come up with the FCE Facility, and _that_ fun invention was now powering pretty much the entire North — more so now that Manchester was at prehistoric levels of power usage.

Fortunately for his peace of mind, however, the new labs weren't too far away. Having learned their lesson from the near-miss during the Civil War, Harry and his Council had relocated the R&D divisions into the cities themselves, albeit in heavily fortified and isolated bunkers. While that made the cities themselves even more of a target for enemy operations, it also meant that barring a catastrophic loss on the battlefield, the research and technology developed at these bunkers would remain close at hand and ongoing while the war is fought elsewhere.

Still, none of this caused more of a reaction in Harry than a particular oddity that he began to notice as he went about his work over the weeks it took to prepare for the war.

Namely, people starting to bow to him ever so slightly or call him "milord," or some other variation.

It started fairly innocuously, and to be frank at the time he'd dismissed it as a trick of his mind, given that the clerical page in question had been talking to him while he'd been in the middle of drawing up a general strategy for the war with the Death Eaters.

But then he began to notice more people saying it, usually in a _soto_ voice, no doubt uncertain how he'd take to them calling him that. The bows were even harder to catch onto, until he'd spied a clerk at his father's ministry doing it overtly. He'd just stared at the man askance for a moment before going about his day, wondering what the hell that had been all about.

As it turned out, he had Joshua to blame.

The Lord Minister of Foreign Affairs had laughed harder than Harry could ever remember him doing previously when he'd told the man over dinner of what he'd seen people doing. Hell, he could even remember Warwick's wife trying to suppress a grin.

"My dear boy," the aristocrat had begun after managing to control his laughter. "Of course they're rendering _obeisance_! It was only logical!"

Harry remembered blinking at the assertion. "Logical how?" he asked, confused. Before him, his sirloin beef lay practically untouched. "I don't recall signing any decree telling people to act as though I'm their king," not that it wasn't in his plans...eventually.

"And good thing, too," Joshua told him with a tight smile. "People don't like being told to accept a new leader regardless of their wishes. If you'd decreed your ascension to kingship, you'd likely have a much bigger issue than Death Eaters to worry about."

"So get to the point already," Harry said impatiently. "Why are these people starting to treat me like a king, when I've done every effort to postpone that until we have a legitimate nation to rule over?" he asked.

"Because we've been telling them to do so since we came to the North," Joshua stated bluntly.

Silence passed over the table, as even Lady Warwick seemed to understand that Harry was not pleased with having been kept out of the loop.

Indeed, when the dark-haired leader of the North spoke up, he merely uttered one word, and not in a tone that conveyed amiability or gratefulness. "Explain."

"The very moment we established ourselves in Liverpool, all of us — from your uncle to your brother — saw that the civil war was inevitable. Hell, _you_ knew it was coming even before _we _did," Warwick reminded him pointedly. "But no one thought at the time, what happens afterward? What's left standing when the war ends?"

He rose a hand then, fixing Harry with an unrepentant stare. "But I did. As did your uncle and brother. Even as you, Speirs, and Curtis ran the North into a military state, we kept our minds to the future, and saw that even with victory we would eventually collapse in on ourselves. What were our foundations as a society? What propped up our government as any form of legitimate rule?" he asked rhetorically. "Ghosts of a deceased country. Mere afterimages of a past society we can hardly claim to still be extant!"

"We're little more than regents, Harry!" he pointed out with growing zeal, ignoring his wife as she politely excused herself and left the room, knowing that her presence at this point would be superfluous. "We're running a country that doesn't exist, and that shows in the people's attitude towards us! The Heroes of Britain; saviours of the King, Defeaters of the Chiefs...so many epithets, but all tied to a country that doesn't exist anymore!"

Harry seemed unimpressed by the man's tirade, though he could privately see where the man was coming from. Still, he crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow, allowing Warwick to continue.

"So we asked, 'how long would that last?'" Warwick recalled as his eyes reflected a sort of detachment from present reality. It was clear that the consummate politician held deep feelings over this, if one hadn't paid attention to a word he'd said. "I'm a monarchist, so I liked to believe that we could always keep up this charade, but your brother showed us the truth; it couldn't. Caretakers are meant, as a rule, to be a temporary replacement for legitimate rulers, but there _are no legitimate rulers in the wings!_"

"So naturally," Harry interrupted then, still with his arms crossed and a distinctly bored look on his face — and making a mental note to visit his _dear_ brother in London someday soon to..._thank_ him for keeping him out of the loop. "You thought, why not spread an ideology that would pave the way for a _new_ monarchy?"

"Exactly."

Silence descended again, and for a moment, Joshua truly believed Harry would shoot down the plan. That is, until he saw the corner of the man's mouth tug upwards.

"Brilliant. Keep at it."

* * *

_**Purity, Death Eater Territory, October 30, 2012...**_

Whatever people had imagined the Death Eater campaign to be like, Neville was certain they'd been wrong.

"Man, these Death Eaters really have no imagination, do they?" whined a voice beside the Commander in Chief, who looked at his companion with amusement. "I mean, calling a town 'Purity'? How unoriginal do you get?"

"At least they are consistent," grumbled a deeper, gruff voice at Neville's other side.

"Sure, if you like being a boring twat."

"Better than some flighty nuisance."

"Easy now, Swift, Humboldt," Neville reeled in his second and third in command, respectively before the name-calling escalated.

"S'all in good fun, Nev — I mean, _General_ Nev," Swift corrected himself with a cheeky grin.

"Speak for yourself, boy," Humboldt grumbled in his usual dour tone. "I say nothing I don't mean."

Had this been some comic book, Neville would've sworn that the two were shooting daggers at each other with their eyes. As it was, however, they merely stood there glowering at each other, the two being polar opposites in practically everything imaginable save one: they were both devotedly loyal to Harry Potter.

In fact, had it not been for that one piece of common ground, Neville had no doubts the two would've tried to kill each other long before now.

Still, the three standing a few meters ahead of the armored convoy were the finest up-and-coming field commanders the North had produced during the Civil War, and each had numerous engagements to their name.

William Swift, ironically and appropriately nicknamed Ironwall Swift by his men, who had been the hero of the Battle of Stoke-on-Trent and numerous engagements since. So called due to the fact that thanks to his actions at said battle, the Chiefs of Staff had their offensive stall as a result of that flank collapsing following the death of General Graves. Ironic, due to the fact that his tactics essentially ran counter to solid defense paradigms. If anything, his strategy had been to remain as fluid as possible and draw the enemy into ambushes.

His fellow commander, Alexander von Humboltd, known among his men as "The German" for obvious reasons, had been the hero of the following major battle, the Battle of Hull, where he had led a fraction of his forces to victory over General Carmody and decisively broken the eastern flank of the Chiefs' advance. Beyond that, he'd proven capable in squashing several pro-Chiefs insurrections after their final defeat, and had overseen the recapture of most of the remaining holdout towns and villages.

Finally, the third and perhaps most famous (or infamous, in some quarters) was Neville Longbottom, the Military Mage known as Wenshi, also called the Sword of the North. A veteran Military Mage from the days of the Anglo-Spanish War, he'd been known for leading the surprise attack at Sagunto that led to the capture of most of the Spanish executive and brass with a pittance of a force, he'd personally participated and led scores of men during the Battle of Birmingham against secessionists, gone on to fight in innumerable skirmishes during the Civil War proper, led the squad that had assassinated General Carmody during the Battle of Hull, led many units on clean-up operations against loyalists still fighting for the Chiefs, and been part of the team that planted the bomb that ended the war at Buxton.

It was for these reasons that Harry had completely overlooked Speirs and Curtis and chosen these three men to spearhead the North's invasion of the Death Eater territories. Though the initial reaction of his fellow supreme commanders had been indignant, they soon proffered their approval at the selections once Harry renamed Speirs Field Marshal of the nascent Northern Army; and Curtis Field Marshal of the Northern Guards, effectively the mashed up remains of the Coldstream, Grenadiers, Scots, and Irish Guards regiments of the old British Army. In order to best balance the power between the two, Harry had given each the right to establish separate hierarchies, though both answered to him...and thanks to Joshua's pet project, he had the loyalty of both Marshals' men to look forward to.

"So who wants dibs?" asked Neville as he lowered his binoculars, having surveyed enough of the surrounding town approaches.

Swift perked up. "You're not competing?" he asked curiously.

"I had the last one," Neville pointed out. "It'd be bad form for the CiC to thoroughly outdo his subordinates without giving them a chance," he added for good measure with a cheeky grin.

"Just for that, I call dibs," Swift grumbled.

Humboldt snorted. "I'll bet a hundred quid you don't take the town before nightfall," he challenged.

Swift glowered at his rival. "I'll take that bet. You in?" he asked Neville.

The brown-haired Commander shook his head with a lazy smile. "Nah, I'll just watch the festivities, I think."

"Suit yourself," Swift said with a shrug before hopping down from the front of their jeep. Walking back towards the military column, he raised his hand and made a circular gesture with his index finger. "Alright, ladies!" he called out. "Swift detachment on me! Move it!"

Humboldt and Neville watched the fiery-tempered man sort out his detachment with varying expressions; Humboldt with detached contempt, Neville with trained patience.

"You shouldn't rile him up so much, Alex," Neville pointed out. "You know he can get reckless when he's properly ticked off."

"He is undisciplined, Commander," the man nicknamed "The German" replied calmly. "He is like an unperfected blade. It may cut, it may smash, but it will break unless properly tempered. If he is to become an extension of our lord's will, he must learn to control his impulses."

Neville stayed silent, making a private note of the way Humboldt had alluded to Harry. Lord. He'd been hearing many a soldier call their master that way recently, and if Xeno's private message from the day before was anything to go by, it was spreading through the Northern Territories (and the conquered south) quite quickly.

He'd already had to order a battalion to stand down during the initial fighting of the war because, according to reports, they'd begun fighting with near-religious zeal for their "lord's honor."

Not that it was a bad thing to be loyal, mind you; Neville just had reservations about the level of devotion these soldiers were giving Harry, whom Neville was pretty certain hadn't a clue how out of hand this was getting.

A soft pop beside him snapped Neville out of his internal monologue. "Report," he simply stated, noting that during some point of his silent thinking, Humboldt had apparently left the immediate premises.

The kneeling Military Mage nodded. "Sir, General Swift has begun his advance," the man reported. "A two-pronged attack designed to strike at the enemy off-guard before they can summon allies to their aid. We've already taken down the usual wards."

Neville snorted softly. It was all but impossible to catch enemy mages off guard once they knew you were coming, and Neville's army was hardly discreet. Instead, they'd opted for masking raids designed to divert the bulk of the enemy forces away from their real targets, leaving the very lifeline of the Death Eaters — their mage towns — wide open. So far, it had worked like a charm, and Neville was beginning to feel confident that this war would soon be over.

"Same tactics as before," Neville ordered, remembering what Albert Hughes had advised him regarding these upcoming fights. "Let Swift's forces enter the town, then block it off with wards. I don't want any mage escaping." Unfortunately, he couldn't ask them to participate directly, given the surprising lack of mages in his army. Then again, he'd told Harry that he didn't need more than a few warding teams...and that was exactly all he got.

Just goes to show that with Harry, you should always pitch for as much as you think you can get away with before hashing out the _real_ amount of personnel you'll need.

The kneeling mage nodded. "Very well, sir."

* * *

**Liverpool, Northern Territories, October 31st, 2012...**

"...and of course, the hospitals will require full replacing of their equipment to offset the losses incurred by the Cheetham Hill incident..."

Harry had to employ superhuman effort not to yawn at this point. However important these briefings were, Harry couldn't help but feel that the mid-level bureaucrats who gave them were hardly fit for giving them, much less speaking in general. They managed to make the daunting effort of reconstruction of a bombed out city into the most boring thing in the universe, and that was no mean feat.

"Naturally, that still won't be possible until we manage to insulate our electronics from the effects of magic," Sirius informed the assembled council, despite the bureaucrat speaking being one of his own. "However, we _must_ begin to gather the resources to quickly rebuild Manchester to its former glory. The more we appear to dally on this, the more people will come to see us as ineffective."

"Agreed," his father James weighed in. "Already, several known oppositionist groups have begun getting more vocal, on account of our perceived lag time in reconstructing the city's destroyed infrastructure."

"Are they mad? How easy do they think rebuilding a city is?" asked the delegate from the newly formed Council of Engineers and Architects, Engineer Alan McGregor. "Nevermind the crater that Cheetham Hill is right now, just having to replace the wiring throughout the city with something robust enough to deal with the magical taint in the air is bloody murder!"

"The masses will always find reason to complain; there's nothing we can really do about that," Sirius assured the man. "Still, that doesn't mean we cannot focus on those areas least affected in order to show off some of our achievements in the near future."

"And what of Inner Manchester? Leave it to rot?" shot back McGregor. "The outskirts of the city can be easily dealt with, but the innermost areas still have thousands of people living in absolute squalor! We can't just stop our work there for the sake of good PR!"

"I agree," Harry then spoke up, effectively ending the discussion. "Find something else to show off to the people; we won't abandon Inner Manchester for the sake of convenience," he ruled. "Next topic?" he asked.

"The economy; or rather, our allies in that respect," Sirius brought up, leading to some of the non-mages in the room to shift uncomfortably. "The Goblins have been a great aid in restabilizing prices and the economy in general, but they're worried that the transition from a mage-economy to a modern market economy could be extraordinarily traumatic for their institutions."

"And?" Harry asked, clearly not liking the fact that they had to discuss this — economics had always been his great intellectual weakness. Something the Goblins had, in the past, exploited to their own advantage when wresting concessions from him. "They got the Central Bank, what more do they want?"

"Well, they brought it up due to the fact that they've observed a distinct lack of voice in this council," Sirius explained. "Ragnok was very particular about his distaste in being left out of important decision-making processes that might affect the workings of his banks."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "They want a representative on this council now?" he asked askance.

"I believe our esteemed Prime Minister is trying to build up the courage to say that they're asking for the position of Chancellor to go to one of theirs," Joshua spoke up, correctly deducing that the dark-haired man had been dancing around the issue due to the fact that Harry trusted the Goblins about as far as he could throw them...mutual interests or not.

"Correct," Sirius confirmed reluctantly.

Harry was silent for a moment. "Opinions?" he asked tightly, his obvious displeasure showing on his face. Even so, he knew better than to just impose his will on this issue. He had no advanced knowledge of economics, and wasn't about to have his new country sink because he was suspicious of his non-human allies.

"The Prime Minister said it best; the Goblins have been cooperating thus far," Joshua spoke his mind. "They've granted loans when our reserves ran short, and they're promoting the reconstruction of Manchester via special monetary grants and loans. They've even bailed out a few minor banks on our behalf."

"How on earth can they do all that?" asked McGregor, jaw dropped in surprise.

"It's not that hard, when you're essentially the only mage bank in the world," Sirius pointed out. "There are a few others, sure, but any real competitors have been long since bought out, so they're using what money they get from their overseas transactions to finance their main operations here. Helps that the majority of mage currency worldwide is in the form of precious metals, too."

"Anyway," James spoke up, bringing the council back to the main topic at hand. "Having someone head up the Treasury would be invaluable, especially if they're fully trained in matters of economics. It would certain lift one more burden from the shoulders of the Civil Service," he pointed out as he lobbied for his department. "Plus, it would make for great publicity if we took the first step in human-non-human integration by giving a major post to a Goblin."

"The populace might take badly to it, however," McGregor pointed out quickly. "Let's remember that until our esteemed leader here exposed himself on the telly, no normal person knew they existed! How can they trust something so new and so...non-human to have their best interests in mind?"

"A fair point," Sirius agreed. "However, if we keep alienating our non-human allies for that reason, we'll end up the same as the mages up north — divided and weak. The Goblins are a source of incredible potential, particularly in the area of economic development and warfare. It would be a bigger crime against the people to exclude them any further from governance."

"Even so, their culture of rebellion has me worried," Harry stated simply in rebuttal. "What's to stop them from rebelling if we don't accede to another demand of theirs, years in the future? If we give them the Treasury, they could just paralyze the nation until they got what they wanted."

"We could always ask for a binding, magical agreement in order to mitigate that possibility," James pointed out. "Hell, we've been cooperating with them based on the same rules as the old treaty they had with the Ministry."

"Would that work on a racial-basis, though?" Harry asked. "Could the agreement be really signed on behalf of an entire race?"

"Probably not," Sirius stated with a shrug. "Which is all the more reason to integrate them into our society. If they feel included and respected, then even if there's a call to arms against us, most of their numbers wouldn't heed it."

Silence passed as everyone pondered that. Then, one by one, most of the people at the table began to nod their heads slowly.

"Agreed," came the first vote, from Joshua.

"Agreed," James.

"Agreed." Xeno.

And on and on it went, until Harry could see they had an absolute majority. Still with his doubts, Harry nonetheless acquiesced to the vote. "Very well. Let Ragnok know we'll be entering talks with his people to discuss the election of a new Chancellor of the Exchequer."

Sirius nodded with a smile, relieved things had gone well in this potentially explosive issue. "Next topic?" he prompted, glancing at one of the minor bureaucrats he'd brought with him.

"Our science teams have reported that they may have reached a —" the same droning bureaucrat from before started talking when frantic knocking interrupted him.

Almost in unison, the whole room's attention swiveled to the large mahogany double-doors, just as Harry called out. "Enter."

With a second of pause, one of the doors opened up, revealing a somewhat ragged-looking man in uniform. From the looks of him, he'd been running for quite some time.

"Sir..s!" he called out as he snapped to attention, realizing belatedly how big his audience was. "Report from beyond the Wall, sir!"

Harry fixed the bureaucrat with a hard stare. "Hold that thought," he told the man before returning this attention to the soldier, glad to have _something_ break the monotony. "Report, soldier."

"Sir, General Wenshi reports that his advance into Death Eater territory has unfolded without incident, and is now in control of several key towns," the man reported. "Resistance has been scarce, and most of the enemy forces appear to have been pinned either due to the efforts of our own skirmishers or their ongoing conflict with the Order of the Phoenix."

Clapping erupted at the announcement as the more emotionally inclined members of the briefing session reacted to the news. Even James and Sirius seemed overtly pleased with the announcement.

Only Harry didn't.

"That's odd," he opined out loud, bringing the impromptu celebrations to a screeching halt.

"Eh? What is?" asked Sirius, confused as to why his godson wasn't celebrating an impending victory.

"The Death Eaters aren't this stupid," Harry pointed out as he brought up Neville's annotated campaign map on the screen imbedded into his area of the table. "Remember the attacks on London? They were perfect, meticulously planned. This...this reeks of incompetence."

"Maybe we got lucky and the guy in charge of defense isn't the same as the planner for London," James suggested.

"Why, though?" asked Harry, still sceptical. "The Order of the Phoenix is a fairly laughable opponent, so there'd be no need to focus their creative energies on that. No, if I were the Death Eaters, I'd have focused entirely on the very real possibility that we'd invade in retribution for London...and they've had enough time to plan it out and prepare for it that none of this makes any sense."

"They're supremacists, Harry; they're liable to make mistakes," his father assured him.

"To this magnitude? Is Riddle really that prone to incompetence?" Harry riposted. "When that so-called prophecy was made about myself and he, he didn't leave anything to chance and came to do the job himself before it could be carried out; if it hadn't been for your forethought and mum's and a whole ton of luck, we'd have all three been dead that night," Harry pointed out. "He's not one to overlook _any_ threat, and the fact that he's just letting Neville waltz right through his hard-earned territory with an army of our finest is just...just..." he paused for a moment before his eyes widened a fraction. "Oh, _fuck me_. Neville's headed straight into a trap!"

Sirius, having since learned to trust his godson's instincts about these sorts of things, was quick to shoot to his feet, pointing at the soldier. "You! Get on the line and inform General Headquarters to relay to General Wenshi to consolidate his position and prepare for imminent enemy attack!" he barked.

"S-Sir?" the soldier asked, taken aback; instinctively, his eyes went to Harry, who was technically the supreme commander of all Northern forces, whereas Sirius was _only_ the _de facto_ Prime Minister.

"Do it, soldier," Harry confirmed with a grim nod before getting to his feet as well just as the man ran out of the room. "Gentlemen, I believe it'd be best if we adjourn at this moment. If General Wenshi's forces are about to be surprise attacked, I daresay it's likely that move will merely be the beginning of a multi-step assault on our own borders. General Curtis and Speirs will need to be informed and a strategy formed."

"Sir, with all due respect, but I believe perhaps Generals Curtis and Speirs can handle this," spoke up McGregor. "You should immediately head into a safe bunker, lest we fall to another surprise attack on our capital and lose our hierarchy of power."

"Agreed," James was quick to back up the architect.

Harry blinked as a few more muted agreements were voiced. "That's preposterous, I can handle myself, and Curtis and Speirs will need me!"

"Are you saying they're incapable of handling a war, Harry?" Sirius shrewdly pointed out. "If so, sack them and replace them with someone more capable. Even so, you need to be safeguarded in the event of another decapitating strike by the Death Eaters."

"This is absurd! I am a sol—!" Harry began to protest, only to be interrupted by the sound of Sirius slapping his hand on the table.

"You are our leader, _sir_," the significant stress on the last word was not lost on anyone. "And as such, you must be kept _safe_, both for the continuance of government _and_ for the sake of morale. How would our men up north react if they knew their leader, the founder of their new nation, was killed?"

Harry opened and closed his mouth several times in an attempt to form an indignant response, but failed each time. Sirius had a point, however loathe he was to admit it. In retrospect, this wasn't the first time he'd been told this — back in Spain, he'd been all but ordered to stay back from the front lines when he'd taken command of his first battalion — Sagunto and magical surgical strikes notwithstanding.

Still, he wasn't about to be sidelined without a fight. "If, and this is non-negotiable," he pointed out immediately. "_If _I have to delegate authority on this, I will want constant updates on the situation, and I _will_ retake command if things go sideways. Understood?"

There was a tense silence as Sirius and Harry faced off before Sirius eventually backed down with a wan smile. "Fine, but try to have _some_ faith in the people _you_ chose."

Harry didn't return the smile. "Faith is what you use when you have no plan to fall back on. Pray to whatever you believe in that we haven't reached that point."

* * *

_**Purity, Death Eater Territory, November 1st, 2012...**_

In hindsight, perhaps underestimating the Death Eaters' resolve to protect their lands had been unwise, Neville reflected.

"INCOMING!" someone screamed nearby, seconds before a massive explosion tore out a whole section of wall and took three soldiers with it, snuffing out their cries of horror instantly.

"Another _Bombarda_ spell from the rear!" hissed Neville angrily as he watched a pair of soldiers scramble over to the debris to try and rescue their downed comrades, futilely. "What the hell is Swift doing, letting them get close enough to let loose one of those?"

"Sir, comms are still down! That magical field is killing our equipment!" cried out his communications officer in a panic.

"Get me a runner, then!" Neville barked. "Tell Swift to shore up his defenses! He's letting them through his lines!"

Though, in hindsight, perhaps Swift had more reason to berate him than the other way around. After all, it was he, not Swift, that had made a game out of conquering the Death Eater territories after having achieved a few easy conquests. Every logical bone in his body ought to have warned him of how utterly unfeasible such a campaign was — how utterly illogical it was that the Death Eaters weren't able to mount a single adequate defense. But he hadn't listened to his own instincts, relishing the opportunity to show off the trust the Northern leadership had in him.

Unfortunately, he'd let them down.

It was...what? A day after Swift had taken the town of Purity — thereby also winning his bet with Humboldt — that the disaster had struck. The whole army (minus the skirmisher details tasked with keeping the Death Eater main forces at bay), still rather confident in its ability to win this war quickly and decisively, had opted to encamp there for the night, and the frightened population hadn't done anything, really, to oppose this move.

As it turned out, it wasn't because of fear, however, but rather because this had been their plan all along.

Neville remembered vividly how he was urgently roused at 3:00 AM today, still a little hungover from a little get together with his fellow generals — wherein only Humboldt had restrained his intake, wisely enough. An orderly, in a panic, had burst into his room and blathered out that they were under attack, and it had taken Neville a good minute before he managed to process what he was being told. By that time, as he understood it, Humboldt had already taken over and begun fortifying the town by first cleansing it of enemy agents.

And by cleansing, Neville soon found out he meant exterminating the population.

Statistically speaking, it wasn't much of a butchery, given that the town had merely consisted of maybe a hundred mages, of which only about 75 had survived the initial conquest. Still, on a moral scale, Neville had been horrified that Humboldt had ordered such a thing, whatever the general's reasons. Even so, even as he stood before the unrepentant general, the fact that they were in the midst of a massed attack by the absentee Death Eater forces had rather put that issue on the back burner.

As it was, Neville had agreed to rely on Humboldt's defensive strategy, given that out of the three generals, he was the expert — whatever Swift's epithet might have said to the contrary. A 3-ringed defense system was devised in which Humboldt would fortify the city limits and hold it, with Swift holding the middle ring, and Neville the innermost, where overall command and reinforcements ought to be set up. As the middle, Neville thus had the ability to coordinate where his troops ought to go and deploy them there faster than if they were on the periphery.

Unfortunately, as this latest incident was beginning to prove, even with a tight defensive cordon, a few enemy troopers always seemed to find a way through.

And if things couldn't possibly get any worse, the Death Eaters had managed to devise a way to effectively neuter the Northern forces — a magical field.

Since there had been, as of yet, no way found to shield technology from magical interference, the Northern forces had always been careful not to erect wards and the like in such a way as to damage the electrical equipment. Unfortunately, the Death Eaters had found a way to do the complete opposite — they had devised a sort-of ward that effectively _drowned_ an area in magical energy, thereby frying every piece of electrically-dependent equipment, meaning all the soldiers of the North had at this point were their guns, a few grenades, their minds, and the ability to shout very loudly.

"Runner incoming!" someone by the door shouted, just before a ragged-looking soldier all but threw himself into the bombed out house Neville was using, at the moment, as a command center.

"Report from General Humboldt!" the soldier cried out as he scrambled back to his feet. "Inferi sighted coming from the west!"

Neville felt as though ice water had been poured down his spine. Inferi were one of the most detestable weapons the Death Eaters employed in their fighting, and some of the most demoralising as well. He knew them as magically reanimated corpses.

His men knew them as zombies.

Cursing to himself, he knew he had to regain control of the situation before his men started panicking and deserting. "Tell Humboldt to hold the line and aim for the heads!" Neville ordered before turning to the nearest adjutant he could find — depressingly enough, a mere corporal. "Better yet, take command here, soldier! I'll tell him myself!"

"Sir?" said corporal paused his vigil out of a window to look at him askance.

"You heard me, soldier! Hold down the fort while I deal with this!" Neville roared at him before nodding to the runner and following him out the door.

As expected, the once idyllic town of Purity had been effectively torn apart by the fighting. Traditional little cottages were either burned husks or craters, with only a few remaining standing with any sort of structural integrity. The streets themselves held very little of the fine cobbling it once had, marred by miniature craters were errant spells or grenades or mortar fire had fallen.

And amongst this paradise of destruction, his men continued fighting, dashing from one makeshift emplacement to the next as their forces shifted to deal with the varying enemy assaults along the circumference of their defensive positions.

A flash in the air caught Neville's attention, just in time to see another futilely fired mortar shell explode mid-air thanks to the defensive field the attacking mages had set up.

"Werewolves up north!" he heard a soldier shout at a nearby group of momentarily resting soldiers. "General Swift says to mobilize that way for a draw-and-kill!" one of Swift's favourite moves, Neville recalled. The group of soldiers quickly faded out of his view as he followed the runner all the way to Humboldt's command center at the edge of the outer positions.

When they did, Neville was thankful for his military and Auror training, as he doubted that so much vaulting and sprinting would've left anyone else fit for duty. Humboldt, for his part, looked about as haggard and grim as ever — though the deepened frown told Neville his colleague was in a terrible mood.

"General Wenshi," the taller man greeted curtly. "Why are you not at the CP?" he asked bluntly.

"Your man here told me you have an Inferi problem," Neville answered honestly. "I'm here to help."

The man stared at him for a moment. "That would be much appreciated. The other Military Mages have been spread out along the perimeter, providing defensive spells to shore up our defenses."

"How many?" Neville asked, though the shrill screaming — if one could call it that — of the nearby Inferi told him it wasn't a mere handful.

"That we've managed to identify? Two hundred," Humboldt answered. "Though these aren't your run-of-the-mill moan-and-stumble zombies, from what I've seen. Already lost three squads to them."

"Then you better add those squads to their numbers," Neville warned seriously. "If the Death Eaters are resorting to using Inferi, then they're not above turning our dead to their side."

If possible, Humboldt became even more grim. "Noted," he agreed. "Has there been any news from our comrades at the Wall?"

"None," Neville said as he went over to the window and watched the mass of Inferi gather up into a rather considerable and disorganized mob. "Our equipment's totally fried. No way for a runner to get through this, either."

"Then how will you stop them?" Humboldt asked, still as implacable as ever.

A memory flashed in Neville's mind then, causing him to smile slightly. "Tell me, General, do you know what the difference between a regular mage and a Military Mage is?"

"No."

Neville's smile began to show teeth as his expression turned vicious, his wand now in hand and walking towards the door, ready to face the oncoming onslaught of Inferi.

"Magnitude."

* * *

_**Liverpool, Northern Territories, November 5th, 2012...**_

Harry had never really had a wealth of patience.

It had been five days since he'd been relegated to watching the battle up north unfold via satellite imagery — or rather, from one of the _remaining_ satellites they still had — and he hated every moment of it. While he could see that Neville, Swift and Humboldt were holding out effectively — with a few close calls here and there — he couldn't help but want to berate all three for three reasons.

Firstly, for getting led by the nose into this obvious trap. He hadn't put them in harm's way a hundred times over during the Civil War just so they'd rest on their laurels and forego all that experience in a matter of weeks!

Secondly, for not attempting to break through to the Wall once it became obvious that they'd been led into a trap. To Harry, doing so was just common sense — without a constant supply train — which they couldn't set up due to the magical barrier at the Babylon Wall — the defenders would have to resort to foraging for food, and while a town such as Purity would have a fair stock, Harry didn't doubt it would all be gone in a few days, if it wasn't already. Hard to feed 10,000 hungry troopers who were only carrying what few supplies they'd initially brought and were under constant siege.

Thirdly, for having given Sirius a reason to sideline him from the action. While he was nowhere near inactive — _lots _of paperwork to go through and decisions to be made in both peacetime _and_ wartime — he could feel his soul calling out for him to join in on the fighting. He'd never once, since the start of his career, been pulled so far away from the battlefield (while not a prisoner, that is), and it was grating on his nerves.

Sure, he'd managed to wrest a concession out of Sirius regarding his ability to return to the battlefield, but unfortunately no one had met the necessary conditions for it to be enabled. Curtis, who'd taken over coordinating the campaign to rescue Neville's army and the subsequent thrust to conquer the Death Eater lands, had thus far performed admirably in that respect, having mustered a good five thousand troops already to go on a rescue mission, rearing to go.

Unfortunately, as Harry had expected, the Death Eater commander — and he was willing to bet his left foot that it was snake-face himself — had foreseen this possibility, and as a result there were now incoming reports from the Wall that a considerable force of Dark Creatures — yes, even Dementors, bless their soul-sucking tattered robes — had begun amassing for what appeared to be a mass attack on the Northern border...thereby suitably rearranging the military's priorities.

It also didn't help his case that Elicia was firmly against his leaving, a fact reinforced when she saw the satellite imagery of the battle at Purity and the masses of Dark Creatures north of the Wall. Harry suspected Sirius of having leaked the photographs to Elicia, but had no proof either way.

"It's far too dangerous, Harry, and you've got bigger responsibilities now!" she was reprimanding him in the (relative) privacy of their apartment — one of the few things both had outright refused to give up once the trappings of power began being bestowed unto them. Whatever their power over the nation, Harry and Elicia had agreed to retain their homely little apartment where she'd lived during the Anglo-Spanish War, as it held many fond memories.

"I am their _leader_, Ellie!" he shot right back, one hand on his chest. "I gave the order to reconquer the Death Eater territories, and _I_ picked those three boneheads to do it! I should be _there_, taking responsibility and fixing this mess!"

"And the next mess, and the one after that!" Elicia poked him hard in the chest. "Don't you get it, Harry? You'll never let go if someone doesn't stop you! If it's not this crisis, it's the next, and you'll always find an excuse to be right there on the front lines!"

"Because leaders should lead from the front!"

"And what about the home front?" she demanded. "Sirius does his best, but everyone knows he's just your mouthpiece, and every time you shirk your civic responsibilities to fight a war, it makes people think you care more about killing people than helping them!"

"That's not true!" he objected indignantly.

"No? Then when are you going to sit down with the Utilities Department?" she challenged. "Or the Reconstruction of Infrastructure Committee? Or the Agricultural Renewal Committee?"

Harry's expression went blank at the names. The _what_ Department?

Elicia picked up on his confusion immediately with a triumphant smile. "See? You don't even know those exist, but Sirius has been working with these people since the Civil War broke out, and the mess just got worse now that we have to rebuild the south!"

"I can't be everywhere!" he defended himself.

"Nor can Sirius, and yet the poor man's been killing himself trying to keep your army working like a well oiled machine! Did you forget that one time you demanded why a supply requisition wasn't filled, and you got a whole procession of hacked off officials telling you their own grievances? Sirius has to deal with that _every bloody day_ while you sit in your bunker and order your troops around!"

"But they _need _me, Ellie!" he insisted.

"Have they called you?" she demanded, fists on her hips now. "Has Lizzy called you and _told you_ that she needs your help?"

Harry blinked. "Lizzy?"

Elicia rolled her eyes. "General Curtis, you _berk_. How can you _not_ know your own colleague's first name!"

It suddenly occurred to Harry that he hadn't, in fact, known Curtis' name, despite their rather close association. Hell, this was the woman who was guarding the entire Northern border, and he hadn't had the foggiest what her given name was!

"Her name's Lizzy?"

"Elizabeth," Elicia corrected with a reproaching frown. "Don't tell me you don't know Speirs is actually called Eric."

Silence, followed by the sound of Elicia facepalming. "Honestly, Harry..." she muttered.

"The point is," he started again, feeling a little flushed in embarrassment. "that I belong on the front lines!"

She glared at him, not budging an inch. "You _belong_ here, Mister Potter. Your people are more than just the soldiers in the army, and these people want to know you care about them as much as you care about the soldiers you send out to fight your wars."

"And what better way to show them I care than by making their lives safer?"

"Honestly, Harry! There are other ways!" Elicia chided him. "You want to protect the people here? You want them to live happy, safe lives? It's not just through war you'll get all that; you need infrastructure, you need decent policing, stable government, freedoms, a working economy...a whole bloody _slew_ of things that you haven't been paying attention to!"

"That's what Sirius and the others are there for," he reminded her.

"Sure, and that works out fine ideally, but if you're not there to take the credit on behalf of the government, why should _anyone_ listen to you?" she asked reasonably. "Why not place Sirius on the throne? Or Joshua? Both are ten times more public than you are. The only ones who seem to really follow you loyally are your soldiers!"

"Those soldiers, as you say, are the ones who are at the moment keeping a Death Eater army at bay!" he pointed out. "And short of putting another mage in command of the defense of the Wall, I'm the only one who knows how best to beat them at their own game!"

"What, because you know how to use magic and none of our equipment can handle the electrical discharge?" she asked snarkily.

"That's right."

Elicia fell silent then, eyeing him for a moment. "Say that handicap was removed...would you _then_ consent to recusing yourself from your military responsibilities and head the civilian government, like you're supposed to?" she asked.

The question had been phrased in a way that implied a hypothetical nature, but Harry knew Elicia too well to take that at face value. Still, he knew better than to call her on it — doing so would just cause _another_ fight to break out. "Sure. Why not?" he allowed with a shrug. "If I didn't have to be there to coordinate counters to magic-intensive offensives and provide heavy support, and we had full use of our equipment, I could let Speirs take over nominal leadership of the armed forces."

A small smile began to dawn on his fiancee's face, and Harry knew he'd been trapped — as obvious as it'd been. Still, while some may have opted for a negative answer, he knew he could never get away with that and remain physiologically intact...or betrothed.

"Good. 'Cause we're pretty damn sure we've managed to devise a way to do just that."


	19. Chapter XVII: Victory in Defeat

_**AN: All I'm going to say up here is I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. Further notes at the bottom to prevent spoilers :)**_

**_-MB_**

* * *

_**Liverpool, Northern Territories, November 6th, 2012...**_

All warfare is based on deception.

A cornerstone of military strategy throughout the ages, it is a tenet of military doctrine that Harry had long espoused during his rise to power, foregoing it only now that he'd achieved his triumph over the Chiefs of Staff. After all, why would he need to deceive anyone any further, now that he was on top? The full array of his forces could crush anyone who tried to supplant him throughout the Isles, so what was there to fear?

A worthy opponent, as it turned out.

Emboldened by their victory over the Death Eaters in the first few rounds of the northern pacification campaign, Neville and his forces had been lured into a trap an the relatively isolated town of Purity, where the Death Eaters effectively cut off ten thousand soldiers from any sort of technological advantage and reinforcements. At the same time, a host of Dark Creatures and Dark Wizards began a surprise march on the Babylon Wall, catching Curtis' defenders off guard and preventing Speirs from sending out a relief force to save Neville's trapped army.

And so, humbled by the fact that they had been so decisively outplayed by someone who'd simply used one of the most basic tenets of military strategy, Harry understood what he needed to do once more. All he needed now were the resources to do so.

Something his beloved rock, his trusted confidante, his future wife had promptly delivered unto him.

Standing behind her as she worked at her computer console in her lab, assisted by a cadre of lab assistants and fellow scientists, Harry watched as a video screen showed the events unfolding on the other side of the rather thick concrete and steel wall the equipment was attached to.

"See the radio box?" Elicia asked him as she tapped a few keys and had the camera focus on said object, which was sitting idly on a lone ceramic pillar.

"I do, what of it?" he asked, fretting not a little due to the deteriorating situation up north, where he thought he ought to be. Nonetheless, Elicia's surprising and near-godsend of a revelation had put a complete halt to his protests at staying behind. If the answer to all their problems could be found in a lab, he'd make damn sure he was there to see it happen.

Elicia smiled coyly at him before pressing a button near her microphone and leaning in. "Okay, Roger; do it."

As soon as she finished saying those words, Harry saw through the feed that a door in the wall near the radio slid open, revealing a lab tech in full HAZMAT gear. A little over the top, in his opinion, but then he supposed they were trying to prove that they weren't pulling off any sleight of hand in this experiment.

The man moved forward towards the radio in broad, deliberate steps, and when he reached it, he flicked it on and pressed a button, causing a small speaker near Elicia's microphone to emit three loud beeps. Again, she pressed the talk button near her mic.

"Preliminary test is a success," she informed Roger the lab tech. "Good work, Roger. Clear the room."

With a nod towards the surveillance camera, the HAZMAT suit moved towards the sliding door and soon disappeared from view. WIth that, Elicia turned to a crew of four technicians who were seemingly monitoring a few screens that displayed information Harry had trouble even understanding at a basic level.

"Status report," she ordered.

"Device integrity reading all green," the first one said.

"FC power output optimal and well within safety regs," the second one chimed in.

"Containment protocols all set to go."

"All data receivers are green."

Harry eyed Elicia sceptically. "Device?" he parroted. He'd expected her to show him some type of armor, but apparently it was a device?

"The radio, dear," she answered sweetly without even so much as glancing up at him. Beside him, his two mandatory bodyguards shifted a little as they repressed a chortle. A quick glare from him shut them up, though. "Phase two requirements clear," she spoke into her mic, apparently transmitting orders elsewhere. "Proceed with Phase Two."

A voice spoke back through the small speaker. "_Understood. Initiating Phase Two. FC device on the move._"

Before he could ask what was going on, the screen began to fizzle a bit as the image degraded. Through the few frames of clear image, he could see that another sliding compartment had been revealed, and a glowing box seemed to be moving towards the pillar.

"What the hell is _that_?" he asked, a little unnerved.

"An FC device," Elicia answered nonchalantly.

"A _what_?"

"Fuel Crystal device," she explained as she rolled her eyes. "A colleague of mine and I pioneered it. The glowy bit is the refined Fuel Crystal-Flu compound emitting copious amounts of MAR — I mean, magical alpha radiation," she added as she kept her eyes on the multitude of screens adorning her console. "The same type of radiation you'd find in a ward, or shield charm...or really any sort of non-physically-harming spell. It's not harmful to humans, but even a miniscule dose of it is enough to fry even a tank's electronic equipment."

There was no need to further add that tanks had among the most well-shielded equipment available on market.

Nonetheless, Harry now understood what she was doing. By exposing the radio to such radiation, she was going to prove that it worked regardless of so much magical energy. If it worked, that is.

"Report," she called out to the monitoring team.

"Monitors show 59% permeability of magical energy in the airspace surrounding the device," came the calm report.

"FC output still within normal range."

"Device integrity is still green; no electric discharges recorded."

Harry's eyebrows shot up in surprise. So far, so good, apparently. A small tinge of excitement was rising in him, even as his fiancee kept a totally professional demeanour.

"Raise permeability to 70%," she ordered.

Harry watched as one of the techs typed furiously on their console and then pushed a lever further up. One of the monitors in front of Elicia, apparently a dial of some sort, increased as well.

"Permeability of magical discharge in the air rising...sixty...sixty five percent..." one of the techs called out. "Seventy and holding."

"Device integrity?" Elicia called out.

"Still green!"

"Raise it to eighty," Elicia ordered.

Harry unconsciously smiled wider and wider as the test effectively pushed the boundaries of whatever crazy shield technology Elicia had devised further and further, without any signs of the radio box's integrity becoming compromised.

"No electrical discharges!" called out the monitoring tech once they reached 90%.

"This is it, ladies and gents," Elicia said with a smug smile. "One hundred percent. Do it," she ordered the appropriate tech.

"Yes, ma'am!" the man complied, pushing the lever all the way up now. Harry's smile had grown to a grin now, even though he could no longer see anything through the video feed — the magical energy had effectively shorted out the cameras. Still, the radio was still reading as functional, so apparently everything was going well.

"Ninety-two...ninety-five..." called out the monitoring tech. "One hundred percent permeability!"

"No discharges reported!" came the immediate response.

Cheers and clapping erupted at that, with Elicia swivelling her chair to face Harry, her arms crossed under her chest, giving him a smug smile. "And there we have it, love," she told him. "Want to see if it still works, despite all that?" she jerked her thumb at the celebrations.

Harry gave her a proud smile. "Of course."

Elicia turned a bit, turned on the mike, and ordered, "Roger, Phase Two is complete; verify results."

Without a feed, Harry couldn't see what happened next. Still, there was no mistaking the familiar three beeps that soon followed over the speaker. Smiling, she turned back to him. "And there you have it, love; your retirement present."

Elicia soon found herself getting each shoulder clasped on as Harry leaned in and planted one of the most passionate kisses she'd ever remembered getting. Ignoring the whoops and catcalls (most inappropriate, considering who it was they were whooping at), Harry soon pulled back and spread his arms as he took in the consoles that had delivered him the best news he'd received in a _long_, long time.

"No, love...you've just given me the _world_."

* * *

_**Babylon Wall, Northern Territories, November 15th, 2012...**_

The Death Eaters didn't know what hit them.

Though, in all honesty, neither did the Northern troops fully understand what happened until much later, when everything was carefully explained to them.

All everyone knew was that on November 15th, as the Dark host flew at the Babylon Gate for perhaps the fifth time, something changed. For once, the Northern troops didn't seem quite as beleaguered as they'd been before, having had to fight without the use of any of their advanced technology.

In fact, the Northern troops seemed far more coordinated than they'd been before, reacting to every movement of the Dark hosts within seconds, whereas it'd taken them a bit to do so in the past.

As far as the Death Eater commander was concerned, however, it looked more like he was having an off day than the Northern troops showing more ability. Apparently opting to prove this theory correct, he ordered another charge at the wall, ever mindful that his goal wasn't so much to take it as it was to delay any Northern detachment from crossing to save the troops at Purity.

A flurry of artillery barrages of a few air strikes reacted against his newest charge, but it was nothing the Dark forces hadn't already seen. Shields were brought up with almost expert ability as soon as the incoming ordinance became obvious, and these strikes failed to produce any significant, or even minimal dent in the Dark army.

It wasn't until the host had reached the immediacy of the Wall, however, that they noticed something was terribly wrong.

Just as the spells began to fly in an attempt at keeping the Northern forces with their heads down, a blast erupted right at the middle of the Dark charge. Then another blast ripped a dozen more mages apart. Then another, and another, until the whole front line was more gore and carnage than active mages or Dark Creatures.

For once stalled, the Dark forces were barely able to register what had just happened before the Northern troops, whom they'd gotten used to seeing ducking behind the parapets of the Wall, opening fire with much more precision than they'd shown before. Scores of werewolves, Inferi, and other Dark Creatures all fell to the hail of bullets raining upon them, and when the anti-ballistic shields went up, the Military Mages, conspicuously absent until very recently, opened up.

Huge blasts rocked the Dark hosts as the Military Mages unleashed the full brunt of their training on the enemy. Great spires of stone and earth erupted from the ground to impale dozens, even hundreds of Dark Creatures and magic users as the Dark army grew ever more confused. An attempted assault by the Dementors on the Wall, their auras leaking that fear-inducing menace they were known for, was suddenly and brutally repelled as immense Patronii charged them down, driving the hooded terrors away.

In the lull afforded to the Wall's defenders by this sudden turn of events, no one in the Dark army noticed the great double doors open until it was far too late.

The Challenger 2 tanks, some of the most famous armored vehicles of the Civil War, had been relegated to gathering dust while the Northern Army had set its sights on the Death Eaters. Yet, inexplicably (to the Death Eaters), these great behemoths of fire and steel were now rolling out of the Wall without so much as stuttering due to the magical field they were traversing.

At first, the Death Eaters and their allies simply stood there, either panicking from the sudden onslaught by the Wall's defenders, or stunned at seeing such great machines still working despite the slew of magical energy in the air. Such feelings were quickly replaced by sheer panic, however, as these vehicles suddenly opened fire, carving great holes into the enemy's remaining forces.

Back at the Wall, standing amidst the whooping soldiers as the tanks ravaged their long-awaited foes for the first time, Harry watched with a smile as his forces tore into his familial enemies. Whoever was in charge of this enemy army would soon find him or herself forced to explain why a routine, simple operation had turned into a disastrous rout, and Harry couldn't believe Voldemort would take that in any sort of tolerant fashion.

"This has to be one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen," Curtis whispered in awe as she watched the Challenger tanks spearhead an all-out assault on the enemy forces, quickly backed up by scores of infantry and other armored vehicles.

"Pity the Air Force wasn't ready yet," Harry opined with a smile.

"How'd you do it, Potter?" Speirs asked, equally astounded by what he was seeing. After Spain, after the Civil War, he'd come to believe two different doctrines would be needed in order to fight mages and normals. Harry had just blown that impression out of the water. "A week ago, we were relegated to simple trucks and lots of shouting — now we're deploying _tanks_ against the enemy!"

Harry smiled mischievously at his colleagues before fishing something out of one of his greatcoat's pockets. When his gloved hand retracted, he was holding what seemed like a normal battery between his index and thumb. "This is how," he stated simply, throwing it at Curtis, who effortlessly caught it mid-air.

Raising it up to her eye level, she frowned at the battery-like device, convinced it was more than it seemed. "A battery?" she asked dubiously.

"Quite so," Harry confirmed.

"Don't be coy, Potter," Curtis snapped at him, about to throw the battery right back, before Speirs snatched it and held it up for his own scrutiny.

"No, there's something different about this one," Speirs interrupted Curtis' mounting irritation, instead managing to grab her attention. "I've never seen this model before. Who makes it?"

"We do," Harry stated simply. "As of a week ago," he added with a knowing smirk. "And it'll stay that way. That, my friends, is the world you're holding in your hands."

Curtis blinked at him, while Speirs frowned. "I beg your pardon?" asked the female general.

Harry returned his attention to the scene of destruction playing out before him. "Elicia and her team realized that finding the proper shielding in such limited time was dubious at best, impossible at worst," he informed them. "They'd have to experiment for years with different alloys in order to find the right one, and even then, it'd have to undergo extensive testing before we even thought of deploying it. We don't quite have that time, wouldn't you agree?" he asked them rhetorically, knowing neither could refute that.

"So what's this, then?" asked Speirs as he held up the battery.

"Her solution," Harry said simply before nudging his head towards Curtis. "Curtis was right; it's a battery. The only difference is, what's stored inside."

"What the hell are you on ab —" Speirs started, before Curtis' jaw dropped and a single word passed through her lips.

"Magic."

"Right in one, Curtis," Harry confirmed with a grin. "See, it wasn't the components that were going nuts, it's the power source. Magic overloads conventional batteries like crazy, causing it to overload any connected component, whether or or off. Elicia and her team simply replaced the troublesome part of that equation with something that magic wouldn't overload...magic itself," he said with a smug smile as he realized his fiancee had now effectively been instrumental in fixing _two_ major technological deficiencies the North had suffered under.

A flurry of possibilities swept through the minds of both Northern officers, and Harry could see that plainly. Without the threat of their equipment dying from even minimal magical exposure, they could really go all out on the enemy, and perhaps even _improve_ their equipment to —

"That won't work," Harry deadpanned.

"What won't work?" asked Curtis, snapping out of her enhanced-tech-full daydream.

"Enchanting our equipment, runic improvements, that sort of thing," Harry stated, easily nailing the object of their fantasy. "I already asked. Elicia mentioned that while the batteries can effectively function as replacements for normal batteries, and our electrical grid can be replaced by magical energy given enough time and further research, indecent amount of exposure to magic will cause the batteries to die off _much_ quicker than they should."

"By how much?" asked Speirs, already feeling disappointed.

"Depends on how much direct exposure they get. If you enchanted a tank to levitate, have infinite ammunition, and cloak at will, the battery wouldn't last more than an hour, and it'd probably take the vehicle's equipment with it."

"What about less than that?" pressed Curtis.

"Honestly, we're better off not trying," Harry opined seriously. "Magic's a fickle thing. For now, I say we stick with what we've got and thank our lucky stars we were able to get it. Let Ellie and her lads figure the rest out."

Speirs and Curtis seemed reluctant to accept that, but they could tell Harry wouldn't lend his weight to a request for intensive modding of existing equipment. Faced with this realization, Curtis and Speirs nodded their assent.

"Cheer up, my friends," Harry encouraged them with a smile as he motioned towards the battlefield before them. "We've just brought the full terror of technology upon the mages. Soon, the Death Eaters will be no more."

* * *

_**Purity, Death Eater Territories, November 20th, 2012...**_

"CONTACT!"

While the Northern forces at the Wall could cheer at their good fortune, following the return of their armored vehicles of destruction, the stout defenders of Purity weren't able to share that joy.

Still cut off from headquarters due to their unupgraded equipment, Neville's forces were reduced to being little more than an armed mob as the bulk of the Death Eater forces bore down on them, their own efforts greatly coordinated.

"Send a runner to Central and let them know we need five hundred more on this line!" Neville ordered as he flourished his wand and blasted the incoming werewolves — horrifically transformed into their bestial shape — thus temporarily plugging the breach in the wall for now.

Raising a hand to beside his mouth, Neville quickly turned towards where he knew a Military Mage skilled in construction was helping soldiers build up fortifications. "FIXER! REPAIR JOB ON THE WALL!" he yelled.

Frankly, it was a miracle that the mage was able to hear anything Neville said, over the cacophony of battle and explosions. Ever since they'd been trapped in the town, the ten thousand cramped defenders had managed to slowly but surely increase their defensive perimeter, albeit at the cost of dozens of their own numbers. This, coupled with the initial losses, had raised their casualty count up to two thousand dead and injured, with these latter soon becoming the former if medical supplies weren't somehow scrounged up.

Even worse, with every Northern casualty, the enemy increased their own numbers. Those infected by Werewolves or Vampires, knowing there was no way back and would end up being threats to their own comrades, ended up taking their own lives in a mixed show of defiance and despair. Unfortunately, even as they joined their fallen comrades in death, the Death Eaters proceeded to desecrate their bodies by turning them into Inferi. The obvious result was a steady drop in morale which, despite their incremental gains in defensive territory, was severely hindering their ability to fight back.

A loud explosion soon snapped him out of his thoughts.

"Shit! There goes the eastern line!" one of the soldiers cried out once he had a look at where the pillar of smoke was rising from in the distance.

Cursing, Neville quickly got to his feet and blasted another werewolf in the face before nodding to the arriving Fixer. "Take care of this breach. I'm heading off to provide support!" he ordered before pointing to incoming reinforcements. "Machine guns on the walls! I want everything twenty meters in front of you bastards in pieces!"

Without acknowledging their responses, Neville shot into a sprint towards the column of smoke, his view partially hindered by the scattered housing — now thoroughly wrecked — of the town. It seemed to him that no matter who won now, no one would be using the town as a base for anything — the fighting had pretty much leveled the area.

Rounding the corner, he was quickly beset by the spectacle of routing soldiers, panic strewn throughout their messed up ranks. More than a few, he noticed, had even gone as far as dropping anything that could prevent them from running as fast as they could.

Well, that wouldn't do. If this sort of panic spread amongst the rest of the army, the Death Eaters would chew them up in no time at all.

Snarling angrily, he rushed past them towards the incoming wave of transformed werewolves, in total disregard for his own well-being. Raising his wand, he slashed it horizontally just as he was about to get mauled, unleashing a savage blade of magic that cut the beast in half, along with a dozen more who'd followed him.

Then, unsatisfied with this small show of carnage, he pointed his wand at the ground and blasted it with magic, transfiguring the breach into a solid wall once more. Turning to his stunned soldiers, Neville glared at them all as the furious howl of denied werewolves echoed in the background of a burning horizon.

"What the _hell_ do you all think you're doing?" he shouted at them angrily. "Do any of you idiots have _any_ idea what would've happened if you let those monsters roam freely inside our perimeter?"

One of the soldiers, still cowering from the howls, nonetheless managed to speak. "S-Sir, we t-tried, but they just wouldn't _stop_!"

"That's why you've got a gun, you sorry piece of trash!" Neville rebuked him. "_Make them_ shut up! _Make them_ stop! Are you seriously going to let them run around killing your mates because _you_ got scared of a few _fucking_ _furries_?"

Just as he said that, one of the soldiers in front of him pointed out something behind him, his mouth opening in a wordless scream. Without budging an inch, Neville quickly drew his combat knife and slammed it up beneath his left armpit, skewering the werewolf who'd tried to ambush him while he was distracted. Noticing the creature wasn't quite dead yet — though still quite in shock due to the pain — Neville whispered a few words and with a flash of magic, the blade on his knife suddenly expanded, tearing right through the werewolf and out his back.

Giving the traumatized soldiers a stern glare, Neville let the knife — and skewered werewolf — fall behind him. "These morons thrive on your fear. If you fear them, they win the fight before you've even shot a round at them," he then looked back down at the fallen werewolf and gave it a swift kick to the head/snout. "But they die just like anything else."

Then, with an amazing feat of speed and aim, he drew his pistol and fired a shot that hit another werewolf in-between the eyes just as the beast had almost successfully snuck up on one of the gaping soldiers. Though the soldier screamed in fright, the others were more amazed by what they saw — over fourteen of the horrors that had tormented them, dead at the feet of a single man. A mage, yes, but still — a single man.

"So man the fuck up, lads, 'cause there's still a whole lot killing to be done," Neville told them grimly.

Without a doubt, the soldiers in front of Neville had never seen a more badass display in their lives — then again, most of them weren't even veterans of the Anglo-Spanish War, so maybe they'd missed out on better — but the effect was quickly cut short when another explosion rang out, though this one wasn't followed by panicked shouting or triumphant howling.

"Tch," Neville clicked his tongue. "Looks like Swift finally got his shit together," he mused, recognizing the affected area as being the one the unconventional commander had been holding since the siege began.

Eyeing the unmoving soldiers, all of them still rooted to the ground from the previous display, Neville glared at them again. "What are you all waiting for, a goddamn invitation?" he barked at them. "Get the hell back on the line, you idiots!"

Snapping out of their reverie, the soldiers quickly complied as they returned to their posts, those who'd discarded their equipment sheepishly seeking it out before doing so.

Clicking his tongue again in annoyance — though slightly tempered by the knowledge that it'd been _his_ hubris that had placed them all in this situation — Neville went back to the werewolf he'd skewered and retrieved his combat knife, now transfigured into a sleek, blood-coated silver blade. Holding it up, he gazed at it for a moment before sighing. Transfiguring it had been the logical choice, but now it was going to be a pain in his ass to try and transform it back to its original design...at least, without screwing it up.

Then again, with all the werewolves running around, maybe he ought to leave it this way. After all, even if silver wasn't immediately lethal to other life forms, a skewered heart or head would still do the trick, whatever the metallic composition of the blade.

Shouldering the blade, Neville afforded the no-longer-imperiled defensive position for a moment before nodding to himself and turning to walk away.

And then it exploded.

Thrown on the ground several meters away from where he'd been due to the sheer force of the blast, his blade skidding away from his reach as he landed roughly on the destroyed cobblestones, Neville felt his whole world go dizzy and unfocused, his hearing now replaced with a loud ring that was positively _annoying_.

"Ugh...what the fu—" he started, pausing when he realized how odd his voice sounded to his own ears. It was honestly a novel experience — he'd never been this close to a blast of this magnitude.

Getting up was also a problem. As soon as he tried, his arms collapsed underneath him, smacking his cheek against the stonework, the destroyed road cutting into his cheek superficially.

Grimacing, Neville shook his head to try and clear it from the effects of the explosion, and found that it just made him nauseous. Still, it seemed to have worked just a bit, as his hearing cleared up just enough for him to realize that a few people were yelling in muffled proximity.

Slowly, he found himself able to get to one knee, his vision still quite blurry and unfocused, but getting better. Closing his eyes, he used his kneeling leg as a support to get himself back up to his feet — idly noting a dull pain in his left arm — slightly hunched over as he tried to make sense of what happened.

And then the voices got clear all of a sudden.

"GENERAL!" someone was shouting at him. Looking to the side, he recognized the man as wearing one of his army's uniforms. A private, it looked like. "SIR! WE HAVE TO GET YOU OUT OF HERE!"

No, that wasn't right. The perimeter...he couldn't just let it fall like that, not after all he'd told the fleeing defenders to get them to fight again, apparently just so they could die seconds later.

"N-Nonsense, soldier I'll be fi—" he suddenly stopped talking as he bit down a scream, the arm he'd been raising to push off the soldier suddenly seizing up in pain. Immediately, he fell to one knee, panting, his eyes wide with shock. Slowly, they made their way towards his arm, which now hung limply at his side.

His wand.

His wand had pierced his arm clean through.

How the _hell_ had that happened?

"SIR, PLEASE!" the private was still yelling at him — god, he wished the man would _stop_! — looking just as panicked as ever. "This whole area's lost! The enemy's swarming the inner perimeter!"

Neville could hardly believe it. If that was true, then his army was well and truly fucked. While it was true that the army could fall back to inner defensive positions they'd set up for this exact eventuality, doing so would still leave behind hundreds, if not thousand to their deaths. There just wasn't enough room!

Their own numbers were being used against them!

"SIR, LET'S G—" the private was about to finish when he was suddenly hit by a bright, green light and slumped down to the ground, his eyes, previously full of panic and fear, now lifeless.

Neville grimaced. The Killing Curse — no doubt about it. Even if he hadn't used it himself since the Anglo-Spanish War, he had years of experience as an Auror to remind him of what it looked like.

"Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear," a voice sang mockingly from within the cloud of dust that blinded him to the breach. He could only make out shadowy figures within it, all of them growing closer. "Missed the brat, I did...naughty, naughty, naughty..."

"Get a grip, woman, before I tear _you_ to pieces!" another voice, this one male and rough, growled. "This isn't time for games! That brat's killed hundreds of my pack! I want his head!"

The voices didn't last long in anonymity. Stepping out of the dust cloud, dozens of visible werewolves and vampires at their backs, were two faces Neville could recognize with ease.

"Bellatrix Lestrange, Fenrir Greyback," Neville muttered, cursing internally. "Fuck."

* * *

"Oh my, now this just won't do!"

Swift eyed the duo who'd intruded into his command center warily, his grip on his combat knife and pistol tightening as he kept both up, ready for combat of any sort. Around him, the surviving staff and guardsmen, too, held their firearms levelled at the enemy, their morale holding steady despite the sound of howling werewolves and gleeful shouts of hungry vampires ringing throughout the house.

"Really, Rodolphus, did you have to destroy this house so thoroughly? You _know_ my friends the Madleys live here during the summer months!" one of the men whined.

"Shut it, Avery, before I force it shut!" the other man, revealed as Rodolphus, snapped. "I've been aching to get myself a new head to put over my chimney," he then said as he eyed Swift.

Said General merely gave a sickly smile as beads of sweat pooled on his forehead. He had a distinct feeling this could get very ugly, very quickly, and for once he didn't seem to have an exit strategy in place.

"Well...shit."

* * *

"Well now, who's this old foggey?"

Humboldt frowned as he finished slitting the throat of one of the werewolves who'd attacked him, letting the beast bleed out at his feet. "It is usually customary for one to present oneself first before asking another his name," he chided his attackers as he calmly cleaned the blood off of his knife with his sleeve. Behind him, his troops stood at the ready, their guns all pointed at the duo who were leading a considerable force of Inferi.

The other half of the duo laughed at the comment. "HA! He's got some balls, this one!" she laughed. "Well, Macnair? What do you say? Should we introduce ourselves to the dead man?"

The man sneered and spit on the ground. "Don't see why not; think of it as a last request, yeah?" he cackled before transfiguring a nearby chunk of rock into a wicked looking axe. "Walden Macnair, professional executioner, at your service!" he introduced himself with a mocking bow.

The plump woman next to him gave an impolite curtsy of her own then. "Alecto Carrow, your soon-to-be killer and necromancer!" she said with an evil grin.

Humboldt, being a fan of actually _reading_ his briefing packets, knew exactly who these two were. Members of one Tom Riddle's Inner Circle; in other words, lieutenants of the Death Eater army. Even knowing how much trouble he was in, however, did not deter Humboldt from exacting professional courtesies.

Raising his knife to his face in a weird mimic of a formal bladed salute, he slashed diagonally down then and bowed his head briefly, his eyes never breaking contact with his enemies'. "Alexander von Humboldt," he introduced himself, right before the familiar clicks of hundreds of firearms getting ready to fire sounded out. "And I must apologize, but here is where you will die."

Macnair grinned. "Agree to disagree."

* * *

Neville was shit out of luck, and he knew it.

In prime form, he might have been able to take on one of the Death Eaters advancing on him, but both? Hell no. And wounded as he was, he was in no condition to take on an Inner Circle member _at all_.

"Aw, such a pity," Bellatrix was cooing mockingly as she strutted over towards him, Fenrir at her side with a menacing snarl. "Such a handsome boy...are you _sure_ I can't keep him?"

The werewolf turned his head so fast, Neville was surprised it didn't snap clean off. "NEVER!" he howled. "He's mine! I'll make him _bleed_ for all the werewolves he's put in the ground!"

"Aw, but do would _I_!" Bellatrix pouted. Neville shuddered at that. He recalled Bellatrix Lestrange being described as unhinged, but seeing it was a whole new experience. And not a good one.

Still, this all gave him an idea.

He felt Fenrir's clawed hand grasp at his throat, not enough to cut off his air flow, but enough to get Neville to gasp for air. "Such a weakling! Where's your strength now, _Military Mage_?" the werewolf snarled, ignoring Neville's attempts at clawing at his hands for freedom.

Bellatrix, for her part, had her face scrunched up in thought. "Don't I know you from somewhere?" she asked curiously. "Have I tried to kill you before?"

"Enough with your inane prattle, woman!" Fenrir shouted at Bellatrix. "You're taking away the sweetness of the kill!"

Neville gasped something unintelligible then, his hands still wrapped around Fenrir's grasping arm. The werewolf merely snarled at him mockingly. "What? Got something to say too? Pity you can't _breathe_, then!" he cackled. "I know, why don't you use your _magic_ to get yourself out of here, like a proper wizard?"

He then gave a wicked grin as his free hand went to the piece of Neville's wand visibly piercing his arm and gave it a twist, making the Military Mage's world explode with pain. "Oh, that's right, you _can't_!" he laughed evilly. "No wand! No magic! And without that _fucking_ Potter around to fling his wandless magic, you're all mine!"

Neville again gargled out something, and this time, in an apparent fit of arrogance, Fenrir drew him close. "What's that?" he asked meanly.

Bellatrix, for her part, noticed something and began taking a step away. Neville again gargled something out. This time, Fenrir unwisely loosened his grip just a bit. "Speak up, trash!" the werewolf snarled.

Neville's pain-filled face slowly morphed into a smirk. "I said, Harry's not the only wandless mage around."

Fenrir just had enough time to widen his eyes before he suddenly fell over, a gaping hole where his stomach used to be, courtesy of a charged up _Defodio_, the likes of which he'd only used at Birmingham before to carve out _tunnels_ in the ground. Whatever the werewolf's regenerative abilities, there was no way he was standing back up after a hit like that.

Falling to the ground, Neville had just enough time to gulp in a large amount of air before he was swiftly kicked back by someone, only belatedly realizing that Bellatrix had foreseen his trick and gotten away from the blast site before he'd gotten a shot off.

"Tch, filthy mongrel," she clicked her tongue as she regarded Fenrir's corpse. "Always too eager for the kill, always too proud to see danger," she shook her head mockingly, ignoring the infuriated howls of her werewolf troops. Eventually, however, she'd had enough of that and looked back at them with a fierce glare. "SHUT UP, YOU OVERSIZED FLEABAGS! Before I turn you all into a _coat_!" she threatened with sufficient force that they all backed down. Then, eyeing Neville out the corner of her eye, she regarded the man with a serious frown.

"Still, you _did_ just cost my lord a valuable asset," she said thoughtfully. "So I guess I can't keep you after all. Pity that...we could have had _so_ much fun together," she sighed melodramatically.

Neville smirked at her as he got to one knee, trying to draw himself back up and holding his left side. "Sorry, but you're not my type," he shot back.

Bellatrix sighed mockingly again. "Oh, the youth of today...no standards at all!" she lamented dramatically, just before idly flinging a Killing Curse at him, which he narrowly dodged. "Oh, well done!" she mockingly complimented him, just before she narrowed her eyes and jumped back, narrowly avoiding getting speared to death by a protruding earthen spike.

Neville smirked, his free hand on the ground. "Harry doesn't hire weaklings," he said defiantly.

Bellatrix shrugged carelessly, her wand twiddled between her fingers. "And yet here you are, battered, weak and at our mercy, and your companions as well. Swift and Humboldt, right? Filthy Muggles."

Neville spat on the ground as he drew himself up fully now, his free hand going up to the protruding wand in his arm and then brutally pulling it out, his teeth clenched in pain, but his eyes firmly fixed on Bellatrix, who seemed mildly surprised by the sudden foolish act.

"What are you—" she started.

With a resounding snap, the wand in Neville's hand broke in two from the force of his grip, his expression furious. He then threw the broken wand to the ground, his now-free hand glowing with magic. "Don't underestimate us, you bitch," he told her, flinging a jet of wild magic at her, quickly deflected to the side. Even so, Bellatrix was unable to hide some of her surprise at the strength of the attack. "We're not just some green lieutenants Harry put in charge on a whim. We're his spear, his sword, his shield!" he told her.

Frowning, Bellatrix motioned for two werewolves to attack him. Neville let them get within five feet of him before he blasted the two away with wandless magic, his entire body a temple of agony, but his sheer force of will keeping him on his feet.

"Everyone said we were done for when we challenged the Chiefs — that it was suicide, impossible!" he continued, taking one step forward. Another killing curse was deflected as he stomped the ground and thus erected an earthen barrier that exploded when the curse made impact. Neville, however, remained seemingly unharmed. "But we...Swift...Humboldt...me...we proved them all wrong. When things were at their worst, we always struck at the throat and tore victory right back!"

He raised his hands to either side and blasted a vampire and werewolf away, a fierce look of defiance etched on his face. "You think just because I'm a little hurt I'm going to give up?" he shouted at her, managing to get a little more pace to the speed of his movement. "Like hell! I am Military Mage Wenshi! I am the Spear of the North!"

With a furious cry, he flung himself towards Bellatrix, the deranged witch torn between bemusement and surprise as she observed the battered soldier try to rush her. Then, with a lazy rise of her wand, she blasted the ground at his feet, flinging him backwards. The violent slide on the broken ground cut into his exposed flesh, making him wince as blood began to flow in even greater quantity across his cheek.

Raising a hand, he wiped his bleeding cheek with his sleeve, spitting on the ground in order to get a bit of the copper-tasting fluid out of his mouth. Throughout this, he kept his eyes on Bellatrix, his gaze defiant.

"Haven't got enough, Mister Big Bad Military Mage?" she mocked with a twisted smirk. "Shall I punish you a little more? Bella's always willing to play with strapping young lads..."

Repressing another shiver, Neville brought up both hands, his pierced arm hurting like hell, and clapped them before slamming them both on the ground. Bellatrix had enough foresight to get the hell out of dodge before the ground all around her — including the nearby walls of destroyed houses — transfigured into spikes. The attack managed to shred apart a good dozen of her troops, but failed to hit her at all.

"Wandless _and_ silent..." she mused, showing a little bit of seriousness at last. "You're a dangerous man, Mister Military Mage."

"The name's Wenshi," Neville shot back, along with another two blasts of magic which the fully rested and experienced witch easily sidestepped.

"Really? You don't look Chinese to me — I'd know, I've killed a few recently," Bella mused thoughtfully in her own insane mannerism, ignoring the fact that she was in the middle of a warzone. "And you really look _so_ familiar...are you _sure_ I haven't tried to kill you before?"

Ignoring her ramblings, Neville grunted as he unleashed another spell, and another, all of them highly charged and immensely lethal. Yet, for all his power, his injuries were doing their part in making him unfocused, and the blood loss was making his vision and reflexes falter. As such, Bellatrix found it laughably easy to dodge around the attacks, though her troops were not as fortunate, with great swathes being cut into the rushing mob.

Before he knew it, the deranged witch was standing right in front of him, his chin lying at the tip of her fingers as she looked down on his bent-over figure. The beads of sweat had long since turned to streams of it, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd managed to breathe without hurting in a dozen different places.

"Oh!" she gasped, obviously quite surprised now that she'd had a closer look at him. "I _do_ know you! You're the Longbottom boy!" she all but squealed, though the look in her eyes was nowhere near as innocent as the laughter she was apparently good at faking.

"What of it?" he asked before spitting out some excess blood from the inside of his mouth, courtesy of his last slide on the ground.

"I knew I'd seen you before!" she exclaimed happily, skipping around without a care in the world, yet easily evading two more spell blasts. Neville glared at her, which she outright ignored. "Yes, yes...I remember that day _so_ vividly! The Dark Lord—" she shivered in pleasure, making Neville scowl in disgust. "Oh, the Dark Lord! He'd just disappeared after the attack on those damnable Potters! Ah, but Roddie and I and that mean little Crouch boy all knew of his plan to kill your family, so we went to do it for him!" she practically sang as she mockingly evaded, blocked, or deflected everything Neville threw at her with contemptuous ease.

"Oh, but we couldn't find you! No, no, no! Bad wittle boy and his sneaky, sneaky mummy and daddy hid behind the _Fidelius_! Then we got caught, stupid Crouch's fault! Always regretted not being able to do your mummy and daddy!" she kept going.

"Shut. UP!" Neville shouted as he slammed his hands on the ground, causing a dozen earthen spikes to burst from the ground underneath Bella, who promptly disappeared from view.

Breathing heavily from both the wasteful use of magic and his wounds, Neville allowed himself a grin as he pictured the last moments of the crazy witch.

And then immense pain flooded his system, causing his legs to give out and flooring him once more.

Clicking her tongue disapprovingly, Bellatrix strutted up to him from behind, her wand twirling between her fingers, a small wisp of magical energy emerging from the tip.

"Ah, the _Cruciatus_..." she shivered pleasurably. "It always gets the..._best_ screams out people..."

"...C-Crazy bitch," Neville grunted into the floor, his limbs all unresponsive to his commands to get the fuck up.

More tongue clicking. Honestly, this woman was really starting to piss him off! "Now, now, language, luv!" she chided him, still in that damnable sing-song tone. Again, his world was overtaken by horrific pain as she cast the Cruciatus on him, apparently intent on breaking his mind.

"I always wondered how long your mummy and daddy would've lasted under Cruciatus!" she mused out loud mockingly. "I'll wager they'd have folded in under a minute!"

_Fuck you_. Neville would've loved to say that to her face, but unfortunately his head was currently grinding itself into the broken ground due to the spasms the Dark curse was inflicting on him, causing his wounds to aggravate themselves in a rather bad way in the process.

Still, in all her fun, she'd apparently made the same mistake as Fenrir — not watching his hands. Fortunately, the spasming had essentially made certain that his arms were flailing about on the ground. If he could just focus for one second...

There!

"What the—?" Bellatrix started, before the ground to either side of Neville burst, revealing racing spike aiming to skewer her. With years of combat drilled into her, however, Bellatrix was far too veteran to fall for this trick, and simply Apparated away, reappearing a couple of feet away from him.

Just in time for his next trick.

Looking up at her furious face, Neville grinned defiantly as he readied his next spell. "Gotcha."

Bellatrix was about to shout at him when they both then heard it.

Bang.

Jerking forward, the witch stared wide-eyed at Neville as blood pooled right over her left breast, staining her robe a darker shade. Stumbling, she raised her wand towards her wound first, apparently deciding she wasn't going down due to some stupid gunshot wound, but the next shot hit her wand hand, blasting a nasty hole into it and damaging the wand itself probably beyond repair.

Screaming in pain, she stumbled forward, down to her knees, only managing to hold herself in a kneeling position by virtue of what little upper body strength she had left. Another shot rang out, and another bullet wound appeared between her breasts. Finally falling flat to the ground, she struggled to look up towards Neville, her eyes burning with hate.

"C-Coward..." she gasped, her mouth pooling with blood as her damaged esophagus pumped it right up.

Neville was speechless, however. Whatever he'd thought would be the natural end to this fight, this hadn't been it. He'd fully expected to either walk away alive on his own, or dead. The werewolves and Vampires, long gone, would've either way made the result of the match a moot point.

Within a few seconds, a series of explosions sounded out in the distance, and Neville was hard pressed _not_ to believe that the Death Eaters were finishing off his forces, given their state last he checked. Thus, it was pretty much staggering when he noticed men and women in relatively clean (for a battlefield, anyway) uniforms rushing towards him, carrying on their faces none of the panic or helpless desperation his men had developed over the siege.

"We found him!" he heard one of them cry out as they rushed towards him, a medical kit apparently in hand. Not that he could really tell, honestly, given that his vision was getting more blurry by the second.

"W-Wha..." he tried to mumble, but found it far too taxing on him.

"Don't worry, sir!" one of the field medics that reached him assured him as she tore away at his bloodied and battered blue Military Mage uniform and got to work at patching him up enough for emergency MEDEVAC. "Help is on the way! Just hold on, and try to stay awake!" she told him sternly before looking away from him. "JOHNSON! Get your arse over here! Hold on, General!" she pleaded with him as she put pressure on the more serious wounds to try to stem the bleeding.

Unfortunately, Neville hadn't been feeling all that great, and he soon passed out, his world turning black.

* * *

"_General Wenshi is unconscious but still alive! Patching him up right now, but we're going to need an emergency MEDEVAC ASAP!_" the radio bead in Josefina's ear was busy shouting in her ear. Grimacing, though privately relieved that her first boyfriend (could he be called that? After all, she _did_ deceive him throughout their stint together and framed him for a murder she'd committed) was still alive. She hadn't been sure, given his condition when she'd blown away _Bellatrix fuckin' Lestrange_, but she was glad to hear she'd gotten there on time.

"Overwatch copies, Charlie-Three," she spoke into her mike. "Don't worry your pretty little heads; I've got you covered."

"Nightshade! Command wants to know if all the generals were recovered!" the radio operator of her team called out to her.

Clicking her tongue irritably, she eyed her sniping partner. "Tag in, partner," she told him. The man gave her a curt nod before resuming his vigilance, allowing Josefina to rest easy as she called up the other team frequencies.

"This is Nightshade at Overwatch, calling all teams; report in. Anyone got their target safe and sound?" she asked aloud.

* * *

Swift had never felt such disgrace in his life, hanging onto his life by a thread as he currently was. With only a single Military Mage in his command post, he and his dozen normal soldiers had been forced to fight a losing battle with the Death Eater assassins who'd apparently decided he was too dangerous to allow to live. He had to admit, mages were really something else!

Sure, he'd seen Harry in action before — hell, he and Humboldt were both veterans of the Anglo-Spanish War, even if they hadn't exactly made a name for themselves there. Only Harry's discerning eyes had extricated him from a dull life of following inane orders and never living up to his full potential.

And all he'd done to return the favor was practically dying at the hands of the first two mages he came face to face with.

Man, he felt like a right tosser. Even if he hadn't been able to do much, with Avery and that Rodolphus character hurtling spells like crazy while their sole Military Mage held up a barrier that bought them enough time to formulate _some_ kind of plan.

Unfortunately, said Military Mage quickly bit the dust when a well placed Killing Curse went right through his shield and ended his life, pitting the suddenly unprotected normal soldiers against the two experienced magical murderers.

Out of the twenty soldiers he'd had, Military Mage included, at the beginning of this debacle, only he was left alive, and only because the others had done their utmost to protect his worthless self and the mages had decided to have fun with him via excruciating torture.

Even worse, he'd now lost his left eye. That sick fuck Avery had laughed while he'd poked it right out, apparently getting off on his pain. Swift's only regret was that he hadn't been the one to tear his throat apart.

"General Swift is alive, but barely," he could hear one of his saviours — some lady in a black, form-fitting suit who'd slit Avery's throat like it was paper before Rodolphus had escaped. "We're getting him to the evac point for emergency MEDEVAC."

Medical evacuation...yeah, that sounded nice. He could certainly use some R&R...

But then, after that was done...

Swift breathed shallowly as his wounds began to get the better of him. Oh, god...

Raising a shaky hand towards the ceiling, Swift vowed that if he managed to make it through this...

All of the Death Eaters would burn for this.

* * *

"This is Team Three to Overwatch; General Humboldt is safely secured. He appears to be well enough."

"Hmph," Humboldt harrumphed as he cradled his broken arm, otherwise seemingly fine. "Don't sugarcoat it, boy," the older man grouched.

Unlike his colleagues, Humboldt had never underestimated the enemy, always suspecting something was terribly amiss. With that thought deeply ingrained in his mind, he'd ordered safeguards, and then safeguards for those safeguards, so that practically every possible tactic the enemy employed would have a countermeasure.

It paid off.

Arrogant in their seeming victory, his assassins, Macnair and that horrid Carrow woman, had charged him and his men blindly, easily deflecting the first barrage of bullets with their shields.

Just as planned.

With immaculate timing, his safeguards — snipers placed along the highest spots around his command center — opened fire seconds afterwards, managing to nick Carrow and Macnair with a few shots. Though the surprise attack didn't kill them, it did force the two to break off their charge, as they quickly retreated towards the bulk of their forces, just in time for his next move.

Having done his homework, so to speak, Humboldt had come to realize that, much like what Harry said about the Death Eaters, they tended towards cowardice in the face of surprises or overwhelming odds. From that, he'd extrapolated the possibility that if their initial assault on him failed — which he'd also considered, given their time-proven history of striking at the heads of hierarchies — then they would likely pull back and allow the weight of their numbers to take him down.

Given that, he'd seeded several fall-back points along the roads leading to his command center, always hidden from view, and all of them under explicit orders not to reveal themselves unless he gave the signal. Thus, when Macnair and Carrow fell back and their troops began to swarm forward, Humboldt had calmly asked for a flare gun from one of his subordinates, aimed it high, and fired.

To their credit, the enemy troops never even faltered at the strange action. Their tenacity was such that even for the first few moments of Humboldt's ambush, they were completely unaware of what happened. It was only when the frontal lines realized that their fellows at their backs weren't coming in as many numbers as they should that they began to panic, making it easier for Humboldt's machine gun emplacements to spring out of hiding and tear them apart.

Still, he'd had to fight for his life more than a few times, and unfortunately some Vampire had gotten a lucky shot in, resulting in his broken arm. Said Vampire was then dispatched when a subordinate opened up with a flame thrower, incinerating both his attacker and a large swathe of enemy troops. Still, the fight had left him injured, and forced him to recuse himself while his men fought on.

At least, until reinforcements arrived. Then the desperate last stand quickly turned into a resounding sally against the enemy as fresh troops began appearing in droves throughout the area, usually dropping some miscellaneous object on the ground upon arrival.

Military Mages, too, began to appear, popping up all around in their blue uniforms and laying waste to the enemy on a grand scale unseen since the Civil War. But neither of these things surprised him as much as what came after that.

A Challenger II Main Battle Tank rolling down the street, fully functional despite the heavy saturation of magic in the air, blasting away at confused and terrified werewolves and vampires; even the Dementors, who'd wreaked havoc on his men's morale, quickly fled at the sight of the impenetrable steel machines.

The agent who'd been speaking glanced at him for a moment, then the medic who was attending him, before shrugging and activating his earpiece again. "Scratch that. General Humboldt is safe and sound, but injured."

He paused for a moment before instinctively shaking his head. "No, not critical. Broken arm."

Again he paused. "Understood. Team-Three, over and out," he signed off before eyeing Humboldt. "Sir, we have orders to evacuate the remnants of your army back to the Wall. A new offensive is being planned."

"What about the towns we've already captured?" Humboldt asked gruffly, ignoring the pain in his arm as the medic continued to attend to him.

"Lost during the ambush, sir," the agent told him. "Either way, the enemy's retreated a fair ways away, but they're not out just yet. Command wants to try out a new approach."

Humboldt shrugged instinctively, causing a brief burst of pain in his arm as it shifted. The orderly was quick to reproach him for it, but he ignored her. "Fine. As soon as we're done here, we'll leave."

* * *

"Overwatch copies," Josefina said aloud before tapping her bead. Looking up, she saw her crew, minus her sniping partner, looking at her for direction. She casually nudged her head in an eastern direction. "Orders from above. Once the big shots are out of the way, full retreat to the Wall."

"We're abandoning the campaign?" asked one of her fellow agents, surprised.

Josefina looked behind her at the flaming, devastated ruin that had once been the town of Purity. For maybe a mile in every direction or more, makeshift barricades had been erected with both magic and natural human ingenuity, and most of those lay in ruins. The town itself was practically one big crater, with the odd building still standing (hers, for instance). Honestly, whatever strategic value this town had once had, it was long gone.

"Let the Death Eaters have this one; it ain't worth keeping," she stated decisively.

* * *

_**Liverpool, Northern Territories, November 21st, 2012...**_

"You can't be serious!" Sirius exclaimed as he slammed a hand on the table, his gaze looking up the table at Harry, who was sitting impassively, his hands folded atop the edge of the table. "Harry, please say you're not seriously considering this!"

"It's the only logical solution to this war, Michael!" Speirs snapped as he, too rose to his feet to meet the _de facto_ Prime Minister's challenge. "The cost of a protracted war in this kind of enemy territory is too high!"

"So sue for peace!" Sirius shouted.

"He has a point," Curtis pointed out to her colleague, only managing to make the Head of the Armed Forces redden in anger.

"We agreed this war was necessary!" Speirs recriminated her. "All of us did!"

"That's before we realized the extent of the Death Eaters' resources! They must've been performing Inferi summoning rituals for years to amass this amount of minions!" Sirius pointed out. "Xeno's post-action intelligence reports all but confirm that!"

"Do you have _any_ idea the sort of fallout this could cause amongst the people?" Speirs pointed out. "Our first war against an all-mage nation, and we lose? How do you think _that_'ll go over? Especially if the enemy are the ones responsible for the bombing of London! The ones we claimed are responsible for Manchester!"

"As much as I hate to admit it, Eric is right, Harry," James pointed out with a pained look. "My Ministry has been working overtime to portray the loss at Purity as a minor setback, but once the casualty list hits the streets, it'll be an uproar, unless we can somehow overcome that loss with a great victory."

"Something to justify the losses, you mean," Joshua summarized.

"Exactly," James nodded, looking ill at having to agree with that assessment. It was no secret that James Potter utterly loathed these aspects of his job; while willing to work beyond the moral limits of normal people, he wasn't so far gone that anything was acceptable.

"This is pointless," Xeno opined then, drawing the angry gaze of Speirs towards himself. The older mage didn't even pay the military man any attention, opting to remain with his eyes closed as he sighed. "We're debating moral ramifications, but the truth is the truth. We lost at Purity in a bad way; three of our Civil War heroes are injured, with one of them about to become a public disgrace unless measures are taken to hedge criticisms and deflect blame." He opened an eye to regard Harry. "Our hold on power is still tenuous. This is no time to be trying to act like a saint."

Speirs looked surprised at Xeno's opinion, while Sirius shot the man a look of betrayal. All eyes turned to Harry then, as he continued surveying his councillors. Then, sighing, he regarded the two councillors who hadn't yet spoken up.

"Ragnok, William; what are your thoughts on this?" he asked calmly.

The newest Chancellor of the Exchequer, Ragnok of the Goblin Tribe, gave the Goblin equivalent of a frown as he was directly addressed. "Are you asking me as a representative of the Goblin Nation, Master Potter, or as your Minister?"

"Either. Both," Harry allowed idly.

"It doesn't matter; my answer is the same anyway. Crush them," Ragnok said with a frightful, toothy grin. "Goblins value strength and cunning, Master Potter, and you haven't been shy about swinging it around thus far; why shy away now?" he asked rhetorically. "Of course, as your Minister, I would also agree with Marshal Speir's assessment. We cannot sustain the economic burden that such a protracted war would bring, not without severely undercutting our current reconstruction and reintegration efforts down south."

Harry nodded silently before eyeing his brother, who'd been strangely silent thus far. "William?"

"I can see the merits of the points being made on both sides, brother," the newest Head of the Civil Service stated simply. "Marshal Speirs' plan would eliminate our foes completely, thereby stripping ourselves a perpetual security concern. However, at the same time, as our uncle puts forth, such a move would constitute as a war crime in safer, less troublesome times."

The unemotional young man then shrugged. "The truth is that it comes down to an issue of morality. Logically speaking, Marshal Speirs' plan is the correct path. However, if we do this, we must be willing to accept the moral ramifications such a move would inevitably reap. Therefore, the real question isn't what _we _think of doing this, brother, but rather; as our leader, are _you_ willing to deal with the consequences?"

Silence reigned for a moment as William's words sunk in. For many, it felt like ages passed before any sound was made. When it did, the councillors turned to see Harry lifting a pen and priming it to write on the one piece of paper that had sparked this entire debate.

"Harry, there's no turning back from this," Sirius warned him, leaning forward in his seat, ready to stop his adopted nephew if he was even fractionally hesitant. "Once you sign that, it's sink or swim. No do-overs, no peaceful retirements, nothing. It's either everything or nothing."

James, for his part, looking downtrodden, staring down at the fine mahogany table dejectedly as he seemingly knew what his son's choice would be. There were times, many times recently, where he wondered what might of been if he hadn't taken his family away from England all those years ago.

Even Curtis seemed uncertain of what they were doing — a rare vision to behold, given the woman's staunch and typically unflinching demeanour.

Harry paused, just before the tip hit the paper, and looked up to his uncle. "I know," he simply stated. Then, with unflinching resolve, he brought down the pen at last and signed his name.

* * *

_**Liverpool, Northern Territories, December 15th, 2012...**_

When news finally hit of the casualty toll of the Battle of Purity, it was everything James warned it would be like. Mass uproar swept across the populace as people demanded answers as to why so many lives were lost in what they saw as a colossal cock-up. The worst part was that it was nigh impossible to deny it was.

The obvious solution would have been for Harry to hang Neville out to dry, but for whatever reasons Harry kept to himself, he staunchly refused to do so, instead ordering another countermeasure against this show of public disapproval.

Rather than being painted as three bumbling commanders, the Northern propaganda machine went quick to work at showing that their three lauded heroes were still, in fact, heroes; merely led astray by the infernal machinations of Death Eater insiders. While this had the potential to open a whole bigger can of worms, Harry was confident that the people would foremost focus on the fact that the deaths could therefore be blamed entirely on the Death Eaters once again.

He was partially right.

While many did blindly redirect their rage at the Death Eaters once more, a decent amount still had to be convinced. Fortunately, the forces that had performed the daring rescue at Purity had managed to capture a few Death Eaters, who were quickly singled out as the insidious insiders who'd led the army astray. While these same could have spoken up against these obvious lies, they were tragically unable to do so, as for some inexplicable reason they all seemed to have bit their own tongues off in order to prevent themselves from giving sensitive information.

Or so the government informed the masses.

Regardless, only the most cynical remained unconvinced after actual bodies were provided as outlets for the rage of the masses. Which provided Harry with three golden opportunities.

Once again buoyed by public approval and confidence in his government, Harry inquired with Joshua, William, his father, and Sirius regarding the spread of the pro-monarchy sentiment that they'd initiated so long ago. The answer, much to his satisfaction, was quite positive, and while Sirius and James still thought that perhaps some more time was needed before any formal announcements of ascension was made, Joshua and William were more of a mind that sooner was better than later.

It's safe to say that Harry infinitely liked the latters' opinion much more.

The second golden opportunity came in the form of the Order of the Phoenix. While he had no concrete proof to implicate them in the detonation of the Manchester device, he wasn't about to let them walk scott-free. He _knew_ they were somehow involved, and particularly deemed Ginny Weasley either the mastermind of the ploy, or at the very least a very interested party.

Well, he wasn't about to get bullied around any longer.

With the incredible gift Elicia had given him in the form of the magical battery, he now had little to fear of the magical bombs the Order had planted. While they were still naturally destructive on a massive scale, they would no longer be able to use the devices to take hostage cities that relied on electricity to survive. Between the FCE power plant and the new battery, the cities would run anyway.

Which effectively meant he was now free to put them in their place. Thus, much to the confusion of the Order, invitations were sent to them for a delegation to come visit Liverpool on the day a nationally televised and transmitted announcement would be made on part of Harry's government. However, conversely, Harry had every single diplomat still within his country's borders (which didn't amount to more than ten or so), barring the Spanish envoy (who served more as an eternal reminder to that country of the destruction the British had been willing to unleash on them last time they crossed the island nation) expelled. The only reason given was that the deteriorating security situation required that they send the diplomats out of the country before they were harmed. There were some protests, but Joshua made excellent use of both charm and force when necessary.

The third golden opportunity was cementing his place at the top. For while he had long since now been the _de facto_ head of the Northern Territories, he had never been so legally endowed. He was, for all intents and purposes, a warlord playing chief of state. Well, that would happen no longer. From today onward, he would finally reveal unto his people the vision he had long held of the future, conceived fully on the day the last king died.

The preparations were grandiose, as befitted the type of announcement Harry was to make. Between the leaflet campaigns, the obvious effort of the government to have even the destitute people of Manchester put in touch with radios or retrofitted televisions, and the spartan decorations (William's suggestion; given that the majority of the nation wasn't living in any sort of opulence, it seemed more than mildly inappropriate to indulge in opulence in such times of crisis), the people of the Northern Territories, from Liverpool to London, felt their anticipation rise as the big day gradually drew close, with thousands taking time off to attend the event personally.

Eventually, the big day did come, and the throng of people crowded near the grand plaza (something that had required some redesigning of the city) in front of the expanded City Hall numbered in the thousands, as James had predicted it would. Policemen in crisp, clean uniforms formed an implacable security cordon between the people and the large platform that had been erected near the bottom of the stairwell that led up to the City Hall. Atop the buildings on either side of the plaza, individuals could be made out standing guard as well, these wearing the infamous blue coats of the Military Mages, each of them specially handpicked by Harry's Head of Personal Security, Astoria. All of them were quite powerful, and all of them were devotedly loyal to the cause, much like she was.

There was music, of course. A proper military band had been arranged, their instruments blaring with martial tunes and pompous songs as they entertained the masses while they waited for the main event.

Of course, this elaborate facade reflected none of the conflict occuring up at City Hall, where Astoria and two other Military Mages were holding the Order delegation at wand point.

"You bastard! You can't do that!" Ron Weasley was shouting at Harry, who was looking at the group quite bored, even as his non-mage guards readied to fire at the group, waiting only for Astoria's word.

"Know your place, Weasley," Astoria hissed at him furiously, the wand in her hand shaking with barely suppressed anger.

"Mister Potter, what you're saying is...unthinkable!" Nicholas Flamel, never one to give in to his baser emotions, attempted to reason with the implacable head of the North. "It's a crime beyond measure!"

"It is necessary," Harry stated with utter disinterest. So far, the delegation had reacted exactly as he'd hoped once he told them what he'd planned to do with the Death Eaters. "They are a security threat, and the cost to my people would be far too great to be remotely worth waging a conventional war of subjugation."

"Then perhaps we could assist you?" Flamel insisted. "If so, we could no doubt be able to bring them to heel between the two, without having to resort to such barba—I mean, violent measures!"

"Ally with mages to kill mages?" Harry questioned with amusement. "The political fallout would have me out on my arse in seconds. Not to mention the revolt within the ranks."

"So you intend to perform this...act for purely political reasons?" Flamel questioned with a frown, glad that Dumbledore wasn't here for once; the news would've sent the greatly wizened mage to his grave. "For public gratification?"

"No," Harry replied firmly. "I am doing this to prove a point."

"And what point is that?" Ginny Weasley asked at last, having kept her silence all this time. Still, she'd managed to get into his head with the way she was smiling knowingly at him; that insidious smile of hers telling him she knew exactly what he was up to.

"It's quite simple," Harry stated as he got up and approached the group, his bodyguards tensing as they kept their wands raised at the delegation. "I don't know how you did it, or when, but I _know_ Manchester wasn't a Death Eater plot," he told them with a glare.

"What are you talking about? Of course it was!" the male Weasley protested.

"Quiet, boy, the adults are talking," Harry snapped at him as he kept his gaze fixed on Flamel and Ginny. With that exclamation alone, he'd finally been able to discard Ron Weasley from his list of suspected third party-ists. That left Flamel and Ginny, neither of whom had so much as shown a shred of emotion at the accusation.

"Prove it, Mister Potter," Flamel instead stated. Well, if that didn't confirm his suspicions, nothing would. Then again, the aged mage did have a point; he couldn't just throw his nation into another war based on a whim.

"I can't unfortunately," Harry stated with sincere regret. "But that's not the point of this little meet and greet," he told them before returning to his makeshift throne, where he snapped his fingers, prompting an aide to move forward with a portable radio.

Both Ginny and Flamel frowned. While they could recognize the device, they didn't quite understand the point of having it brought to their attention. Then, without a word, Harry suddenly shot a jet of stunning magic at the device, prompting all of the Order mages to flinch, having expected a sharp pop as the device naturally short-circuited.

Only it didn't.

Eyes widening with dawning horror and repressed admiration and jealousy (on Ginny's part, who instantly regretted not having thought of this possible eventuality), the mages were unable to form a coherent response to what they'd seen. Fortunately for them, Harry removed that necessity.

"This is why you're here," Harry stated, motioning towards the device. "Magic used to be the limiting factor to our war machine. No longer," he half-fibbed. While it was true that thanks to Elicia's newest toy he could effectively use electricity-powered devices in magic-intensive environments, that didn't mean they weren't still able to explode, be crushed, or hurtled away. "Today you are going to witness the dawn of a new era, and then you will have a choice, ladies and gentlemen," he informed them with a growing smirk. He raised one hand. "Choice A: you go back to to your lands and _stay_ there, never attempting to raise another hand at us, or retake the Death Eater territories..." he then raised his other hand. "Or Choice B: you ignore my warning, cause another incident, and _I erase you and your pathetic Order from the face of the earth with every weapon I have._"

Putting both hands down, Harry's smile reflected no kindness, only malice. "Am I understood?"

Ron swallowed audibly, having grasped, despite his limited understanding of technology, of the implications of what he'd just seen. The redheaded man looked up to Flamel, whose visage had become stony and dour. Only Ginny seemed remotely fine with everything, though to be honest Ron had long since realized he could no more predict what his sister was thinking nowadays than he could stop the sun from rising.

Eventually, Flamel's shoulders sagged and he nodded, defeated. "We...understand."

Harry's smiled widened, suddenly full of warmth. "Excellent! Then please enjoy the festivities today! Astoria, please escort these gentlemen and lady to their seats?"

Astoria gave the trio a wicked grin. "Of course, sir. My pleasure."

* * *

The event began as like many others of its kind. First, Sirius, as the _de facto _and _de jure_ Prime Minister (by virtue of having been the most senior Parliamentarian left alive of the pre-war ruling party after the Civil War), Sirius gave a speech regarding the need for unity, strength of will, and dauntless spirits in the face of the great adversity that the North was still undergoing.

As usual, Sirius allowed much of his personal philosophy of a just government underline his speech, insisting that the reconstruction and reintegration efforts would be marked with little corruption and zero tolerance for discrimination of any kind, both of which drew applause from the audience. Yet despite the support they showed their elected Parliamentary leader, it wasn't he whom the audience had been waiting for.

No, they were waiting on Harry, who at least showed himself when the double oak doors of City Hall opened, revealing him standing in full Military Mage uniform, his symbols of rank and authority gleaming on his blue coat. The thunderous applause that greeted him literally drowned out Sirius' introduction, causing him to eventually give an exasperated smile and simply motion towards the hailed hero, clapping along with the crowd.

The three mages of the Order stood watching in some surprise as the people continuously acclaimed Harry as he came down the stone steps leading up to City Hall. They had known that the raven-haired leader had a significant following, but nothing in their intelligence had suggested this level of approval.

As Harry reached the platform and came up, his Ministers and Councillors, as well as invited Members of Parliament and the Ambassador of Spain, all stood up and gave him a standing ovation as he drew closer to the podium, acknowledging them all with a thankful nod. He also offered a genuine smile towards Elicia, his sister, and his mother, all of whom were smiling proudly at him.

Once he reached the podium, Harry became all business, however. He knew he had to make this count.

"Citizens of the Northern Territories," he began. "It is with great honor that I address you all today, but also with great sorrow," he allowed himself to dip his head somberly then, before raising it again. "As you all know, a great tragedy befell our nation less than a month ago, when the Death Eaters lured our brave heroes into an insidious trap that tore the life away of seven hundred of our brothers and sisters, with many more wounded — some, forever," he stated somberly, once again capturing the mood of the audience perfectly. "It is thus that I take now this opportunity to recall that loss, and mourn the passing of so many of our heroes."

"But with defeat, comes insight," he then said, playing again on the subdued rage he knew lurked in the hearts of the masses. "We have fought for so long against conventional peoples, against conventional methods, that perhaps we let our guard down. Perhaps we didn't regard the Death Eaters as much more than animals — and why should we have, when that is exactly what they proved themselves to be in the past?" he demanded. He swore he could hear a few yells of "Yeah!", but wrote it off as his imagination.

"But now we know better!" he stated. "Now we realize our faults, and we temper ourselves anew with the wisdom that this defeat afforded us!" He continued. "When the Civil War erupted, we were caught off guard and lost many times before we could win! During the Anglo-Spanish War, we lost so many of our brothers on the battlefield before we could clinch victory!"

"And we shall do so again," he affirmed firmly. "This Crisis has brought to light several problems with the way things have been, and we have now reached a decision on how to solve them. That is the reason for this event."

"Firstly, though we have achieved victory in the Civil War, we have never moved on," he said. "We have lived from day to day, hoping for things to get better, never realizing that the only ones who _can_ make things better are ourselves!"

"And second, we live with institutions that no longer exist!" he reminded them. "We buried our king amidst mourning and tears, but dishonor his memory by never having moved on! Where is our leadership? Where are our kings and elected prime ministers?" he continued.

"Thus, we, ever your servants, have decided the following regarding the administrative and legal organization of the realm," he announced.

"Firstly, that as befitting our heritage, but with a new vision for the future, we shall retain a monarchy, whose first dynastic holder shall be elected by the will of the people," he said. Applause broke out as those who supported his own candidacy for the throne, seeded carefully throughout the crowd, incited the people into mass support for the move.

"Secondly, the Northern Territories shall be reformed into the Kingdom of the Northern Sun, as a testament to our vision for a new country, bereft of the burdens and shackles that kept the United Kingdom from fulfilling its destiny as a beacon of civilization!" Again, resounding applause greeted him as his people drew the crowd into a furor of approbation.

"And Thirdly, we pledge that whomsoever shall be chosen to rule over this new nation of ours, this new hope that we shall create together, shall find in us no reluctance to rescind our power in favour of the will of the people!"

Here, there was no real need for inciting applause. Without a doubt, it had lifted a great weight off the shoulders of many a man and woman that the military administration — in power since even before the Civil War — would be handing power over to a more tempered, elected government.

Of course, that was idealistically speaking. In reality, Harry knew exactly how things would go.

"I now hand you all back to our distinguished Prime Minister, who shall be disclosing the details of the elections shortly. But before I do, allow me to remind you; we are all in this together!" he stated with a wide, welcoming grin. "I have had the honor of serving you all for most of my life, and I can honestly say before you all right now that I have never been prouder to do so!"

Cheering greeted his words as the crowd began chanting his name, only mildly incited by his agents. Harry waved at the crowd as he stepped back, smiling, and shook Sirius' hand firmly in a show of support for the elected official — all pre-planned, all staged.

Oh, he couldn't wait to inform them in the near future of the existence of the magical batteries. He could only imagine the kind of PR gains he would accrue from that. Still, as they shook hands for the photo-op, Harry managed to lean in towards Sirius and ask, "How long?" he didn't need to elaborate what he was asking about, as Sirius nodded.

"One week is all we're giving it," he mumbled back through his smile.

One week. Harry could barely suppress the none-too-warm smile that threatened to break through his carefully crafted mask. One week.

One week, and he would be king.

* * *

**_Post-AN: Ok, so I'm going to try and head off what I imagine will be some of the burning questions:_**

**_1. Yes, I did say the Inner Circle wouldn't get offed this chapter, and I believe I've only partially broken that statement. To be honest, much of the reason this chapter took so long to write (most of it was done like...a week ago) was because I didn't know whether to keep Bella getting offed, or not. Fenrir was always a dead man, but Bella and Avery were the ones I wasn't sure about. Eventually, however, I realized that not every major villain could get a guaranteed epic duel death scene. It doesn't happen in real life, and while this story is hardly real life, I do try to maintain -some- realism. I hope._**

**_2. Yes, Harry's being an ass. That's intentional. He's finally reaching the second huge step of his rise to power - kingship - and he's not about to let that go to waste because of some moral shackles. He's sacrificed a lot to get there, and he's not about to stop now. Bear in mind, not all sacrifices are material._**

**_3. It's fairly self-evident what Harry's signed into action. If you really want to know without waiting for the next chapter, just PM me or leave a signed review and I'll let you know. Still think I made it pretty clear, though._**

**_Anyway, I think those are the main points I figured would cause some distress. I could be wrong and have missed something else; but as always, I look forward to hearing from you all if you do find something else!_**

**_Cheers,_**

**_Marquis Black_**


	20. Chapter XVIII: Victor Rex

_**AN: It bears mentioning that this chapter is more transitory than an actual chapter, though the events depicted within are in fact quite significant. Unfortunately, I couldn't really mix in the end of the Death Eaters with the coronation, so I'm leaving that for next chapter. Hope you enjoy this chapter, though!**_

* * *

_**Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, December 24th...**_

_Dong. Dong. Dong._

The cathedral bells rang loud as the time for the ceremony neared. Throughout the city, throngs of supporters went to the streets, their sheer mass paralyzing traffic. Banners, improvised horns and other musical instruments also came to the fore as the people of the city rejoiced in the upcoming coronation ceremony.

For the day before, the name of their chosen candidate had finally been revealed, amidst baited breaths and soaring expectations.

Harry Potter.

It was only really a surprise to those who weren't in the know, but the dark-haired commander of the Northern forces had outdone his opponents by a massive landslide. Between his military record, ranging from the Anglo-Spanish War to the current Anglo-Death Eater War, and his accomplishments in presiding over a steady period of reconstruction following the catastrophic event at Manchester and the Civil War, his choosing had been all but guaranteed.

Oh, certainly, there had been others who had imagined that maybe they had a chance at unseating him, though these were mostly counting on public fatigue regarding their ruling administration, much as it had been with Churchill. Yet, circumstances differed, and Harry brushed these challenges away as one would a fly.

The streets, lovingly decorated throughout the week not just by the government but by an eager population, were constant scenes of celebration and discussion as they awaited the coronation of their newest king.

All throughout this, no one noticed the movements of Harry's reformed intelligence service, now formally the Special Intelligence Service, as they seeded the crowd with their agents, all of them carefully seeking to root out any hidden threats to the upcoming government.

Even as the people celebrated, the perfectly blended agents moved and isolated those they knew to be threats, and quickly and lethally dispatched them, their bodies recovered and hidden away for disposal.

Up on the rooftops, the Military Mages, too, held a quiet vigil over the celebrating masses, their blue uniforms making them quite conspicuous. Yet, they were not worried; the SIS would handle normal citizens, but it was the Military Mages' duty to seek and weed out any hidden rogue mages that might make an attempt on their leader during the celebrations. After all, if there was ever a better opportunity to make a political statement via assassination, this was it.

To that end, Astoria, who'd been put in charge of the hunt, had already detected a couple of mages that had been dispatched with all due efficiency, the SIS assassins she'd directed towards them having made short work of the conspicuously dressed rogues. For now, she kept a watch over the masses on the streets beneath her.

"Lady Greengrass," a male voice called for her from behind, causing her to look over her shoulder. Another one of her men.

"What is it?" she asked as she resumed her vigil.

"We've caught two more rogue mages hidden amongst the crowd in sector one," he reported as he knelt. "Three in sector five."

"They're really coming out of the woodwork, aren't they?" Astoria mused amusedly. "Filthy traitors, wanting to disrupt this glorious moment."

"Yes, ma'am," her subordinate agreed before raising a hand to his ear. "Ma'am, one of our scouts reports having found a potential hideout for another terrorist cell in sector four. Could be linked to Manchester."

Astoria frowned; it was a standing order from both Xeno and Harry to hunt down and kill any associates of the Manchester cell responsible for the explosion there. If these fanatics were on the move again, it was necessary to preempt them at any cost.

"Where exactly?"

"Warehouse in the industrial sector; our scout has transmitted portkey coordinates. The portkey's waiting downstairs."

Astoria nodded as she turned away from the ledge and walked back to her subordinates and then past him. "Let's go."

* * *

_**Sector Eight, Death Eater Territory, December 24th, 2011...**_

"What a wreck."

Oliver Wood, newly promoted Detachment Leader of the Military Mages, observed as he looked upon the remains of yet another Death Eater town, its smoking ruins a bleak reminder of the community it had once housed. A mere two days ago, it had been a vibrant place, full of life (or as much life as a Death Eater town could have), but had since been bombed into oblivion by the relentless assault of the newly constituted Royal Air Force. Almost as though making up for their previous absence during the Civil War, the North's Air Force had undertaken their task to make the Death Eater territories into a massive graveyard with efficient zeal.

Seven days, the bombing campaign lasted, and during those seven days a great swathe of what used to be Scotland was bombed to oblivion as the RAF carried out their orders. Yet, even as they did so, subsequent flybys indicated the survival of more than a few communities.

That was enough to warrant sending out propaganda jets to order the remaining survivors to surrender. A window of twenty-four hours had been offered for the Death Eaters to lay down their arms and surrender at the Babylon Wall.

Those twenty-four hours had now passed.

Fortunately for the conscience of many in High Command who disapproved of this campaign, thousands of women, children, and disproportionately few men did come to surrender, and were duly processed. Yet, it was a secret to no one that there was still quite a few holdouts remaining willing to fight the North. Of course, that meant absolutely nothing to High Command, for which they had proceeded to send into Death Eater territory a full army of normals and Mages to bring the rebels to heel. Well, that wasn't quite accurate.

More specifically, every last Death Eater, marked or unmarked, who didn't immediately surrender following the bombing campaign was to be executed on the spot. A single act of resistance was all it took for the Northern soldiers to put a bullet between their eyes. And Oliver had the distinct honor, so to speak, to oversee his assigned region's assimilation and extermination.

It wasn't the dream assignment he'd been hoping to get, by any stretch of the imagination.

"Sir!" someone called out to him, making him turn his head in that particular direction. A section of troopers in their Civil War uniforms (khaki pattern, used mostly to distinguish their allegiance from the Chiefs of Staff's forces) were hauling a beam of charred wood from the floor, revealing a trap door. "We heard movement!"

"Have they surrendered?" Oliver asked, closing his eyes as he hated this part.

"No, sir," the same soldier replied.

"Have you offered them a chance to surrender?" Oliver asked again.

"Yes, sir."

Feelings of disgust rose within him as he forced himself to push down on his grief. "You know what to do, soldier," he stated, turning to move away from the scene.

"Yes, sir!" the soldier replied, clearly just as unhappy about this but compelled to do so by circumstance. Motioning towards his men, the soldier rose his weapon towards the trap door, emulated by his fellows, and promptly opened fire.

The haunting noise of gunfire and screams being intermingled cursed him every step Oliver took away from the scene, but the Military Mage made no move to stop it. This had been the order from Liverpool — the Death Eaters had taken too much from the world, and their ideology was to be exterminated to the very last adherent. If they did not surrender, then the entire population who lived under Death Eater rule would be rendered extinct.

"How many does that make?" someone ahead of him asked. Looking up, Oliver frowned upon seeing the mastermind behind the extermination campaign, Albert Hughes.

Reputed for being the brains behind every "dark" combat operation the North had undertaken from its very inception, Hughes was both admired and hated throughout the entire service for the atrocities he'd schemed to bring the North to power.

"Three thousand," Oliver replied tersely, the very words serving to bring a foul taste into his mouth. "Half that in prisoners."

Hughes nodded as he let the Military Mage pass by him, his arms crossed and expression pensive. "Sector One's count is at two thousand and eight hundred prisoners. You're quite efficient, Detachment Leader," he noted. Of course, neither men commented that of said prisoners, probably half would face execution. "Still, Sector Four's doing better than anyone. They say its commander is quite the fanatic. We better make sure you don't fall too far behind, eh?"

Oliver had to suppress the urge to run the man through with a slicing spell. He knew he was being praised, but this wasn't honorable work — it wasn't even _good_ work. This was just genocide, plain and simple.

And on Christmas Eve, to make things worse.

God, he hated his job.

* * *

_**Sector 4, Death Eater Territory...**_

"In there! Death Eaters!"

The sound of boots crashing against the ground somehow managed to overpower the sounds of screaming, gunfire, and explosions as Swift walked down the town's main road, engrossed in the cacophony of horror and death. As he did so, he brought up both of his arms and inspected them, ignoring all of the rampaging and chaos around him.

Ah, magical medicine was truly a wonderful thing!

When he'd been undergone MEDEVAC more than a month ago, he'd been on death's door; the doctors had been positively amazed he'd even been alive by the time he hit the operating table. Yet, thanks to the wonders of magical medicine, combined with a little creative, normal surgery, he was back on his feet.

Of course, magical medicine hadn't been able to restore him _completely_...

Raising a hand to his left eye, he saw it vanish from his sight. It was still so disconcerting to see that happen — so hard to accept that a mere month ago, he'd been seeing the world with two eyes, and was now limited to half his normal perception. Even worse, his depth perception was shot to hell, and he'd spent much of that month of convalescence smacking into chairs and tables, or falling flat on the ground when he tried to sit down, having misjudged distance.

Ah, it made him just so...

Angry.

Watching as a desperate man in wizard robes ran past him, obviously trying to escape his Northern pursuers, Swift gazed at the man's back contemptuously for a moment before drawing his issued sidearm, lining up the shot, and firing, immediately dropping the fugitive.

Not a kill shot, unfortunately — his depth perception was still just so out of whack! — but it was enough to get the soldiers chasing the man to reach him and grab hold of him again. There was no fear of Apparation or Disapparation, or even portkeys being activated — one of the first things done in each sector was erecting wards to prevent escape.

One of the soldiers dragging the yelling man back towards a group of captured mages gave Swift a respectful nod. "Thank ye, sir!" he thanked the general. "Almost lost him!"

"Do try to be more careful, will you?" Swift merely answered as he moved on, ignoring the increased shouting as the rounded-up mages were lined up against a wall. A few minutes later, those very screams were drowned out by the sound of automatic weaponry opening up.

As he heard the sound of dropping bodies, Swift could've sworn his left eye socket had finally stopped hurting as much as usual.

"Stop enjoying this so much, Swift," suddenly spoke up a familiar, grouchy voice. "It's unbefitting an officer. Or a human being."

"Oh, stop being such a wet rag, Humboldt!" he shot right back as he continued relishing the sound of chaos all around him. "They deserve everything they're getting."

"That does not mean we should take pleasure in the suffering of others, even if they are our enemies," Humboldt stated gruffly. "Whatever they've done to their fellow man."

Humboldt was referring, of course, to the fact that three days into the genocide, Northern troops had uncovered more than one household harboring normals who'd been enslaved. While distaste for the genocide remained rife within the armed forces, much of the restraint they'd retained during the exercise of their duties evaporated once they saw the abused bodies of these enslaved fellow countrymen.

It was even worse when they came about slaves who'd become wholly dependent on their actual state, and so actually _fought back_ against the Northern troops. In those instances, the liberated slaves had to be put down, and that just served to enrage the Northerners even more, pushing them towards accepting the government's orders without question.

The problem for a seasoned man as Humboldt, however, was that he knew that not even the government had known about this practice, so the decision to make this genocide about that was _ex_ _postfacto_. The Death Eaters, as far as he could tell from confidential briefings, had never been slated for infiltration; it was simply much too dangerous and whomever was sent would have to be a mage — which was deemed unacceptable on grounds that if a Military Mage ever got caught spying, valuable state secrets could leak out.

What this meant was that though the populace would now believe that the genocide was righteous, the truth was that the government had merely used a subsequent discovery to justify its extermination campaign, which was in turn born more out of a need for revenge than anything else.

And speaking of revenge...

Humboldt eyed his one-eyed colleague with some worry. Ever since his near-miss at the hands of two of the Death Eater Inner Circle, Swift had changed for the worse, in his opinion. While his military skills were still top-notch, there was now a deep, dark fury within the man that drove him to not just defeat enemy mages, but destroy them as well. Case in point, his handling of Sector 4.

The worse part was that as Swift's backup, he could do very little but stand by and watch as Swift effectively burned everything mage-related to the ground. Was this really the world they'd been fighting for?

* * *

_**London, Kingdom of the Northern Sun...**_

One needn't have been on a battlefield to see death on this particular day, however.

Even in London, where the Northern forces had instituted martial law while the southern territories underwent reconstruction, the soon-to-be-crowned King's forces were hard at work rooting out the last remnants of the Chiefs of Staff's forces.

Much like in Liverpool, the soon-to-be-King's hand was felt through the agents of the SIS, its operatives laced throughout the city's population and careful in keeping their identities outside of public knowledge. To that end, many of the agents had taken to dyeing their hair with easily washable mixtures or wearing realistic-looking wigs to conceal their identities while on the job.

After all, many of these same agents had formed families and bonds while in the exercise of their functions, and so had much to lose from being outed as an agent of the government's deadly new intelligence service.

For Josefina, however, there were no such bonds to keep her hidden away. She had no cover identity, no cover job, no cover romantic relationships — nothing. She was, and was known to be, the King's will made manifest. If Xeno wasn't around to say otherwise, her fellow agents treated her word as law — a sort of respect she'd earned by killing off the government's enemies without question and sabotaging those plans that would seek to destabilize the young nation.

Yet, despite her fellow agents knowing _of_ her, they didn't _know_ her. A fact made evident when a newly recruited operative had almost intruded in her pre-op ritual. To her misfortune, it was one of those brash idiots that had managed to somehow get past the recruitment filters. She'd already had issues with him over the fact that she was, 1) younger than him; 2) better than him in nearly every area of fieldwork; and 3) his superior.

"What's she _doing_?" the young man asked a fellow colleague who'd pulled him out of the small room where Josefina was.

Josefina, kneeling before a small altar that held a single golden cross and a pot of smoking incense, said nothing as she continued mumbling something under her breath, her hands clasped together in an odd form very much unlike the normal Christian prayer pose.

"Praying," the veteran agent informed his younger comrade in a hushed tone that clearly indicated he thought the younger man was mentally deficient for not realizing this given what they were seeing. "Best leave her to it, unless you want to end up like the people we're taking down today."

The younger agent looked at the older man askance for a moment before shrugging and following the man away. Left alone, Josefina gave silent thanks to her colleague for his consideration as she continued with her prayers.

It was a strange thing, she reflected, for an assassin to pray. After all, how could one feasibly ask for salvation when one's work was to kill another human being? More curiously, she couldn't remember when it was that she'd begun doing so; when Harry had rescued her all those years before, she'd been borderline agnostic. Sure, she'd been raised in the Catholic tradition, like many other Spaniards, but she'd never really put any faith in it — simply going through the motions at services, as it were.

Yet somewhere along the line, she'd begun looking for a reason to justify what she did. Helping Harry achieve his dreams was still the main driving force behind her actions, but she'd wondered what it said about a person that their ambitions solely revolved around someone else. What about what she wanted, as a person? How did she justify doing these things in regards to her own ambitions for her own life?

Her answer came not from Harry, but from Xeno, oddly enough. She could still remember the day they spoke to that effect; it had been a day after she'd put Bellatrix Lestrange into the ground. Xeno had been congratulating her for a job well done when she'd hesitantly prodded him about her insecurities. Thankfully, Xeno had known her for a long time now, so he wasn't at all unwilling to talk about such things with her, their bond one more akin to friendship than mere work colleagues.

Xeno had listened to her ramblings for quite some time before he shared with her his own reasons for supporting Harry: the greater good.

An inane philosophy, she'd thought at the time. There was no greater good — it was a singularly impossible concept to define firmly, and therefore worthless. Xeno, however, had smiled and explained then,

"_The greater good isn't defined by what everyone thinks is the best world, but rather what __**you**__ think it is._"

In short, whatever she decided the greater good to be, that was it. For Xeno's part, he told her he saw it as a world where mage and normal can live and mingle together freely. A world, in short, where his daughter could live in normalcy and peace, since the Magical World had nearly reduced her to a psychological wreck. To that end, he saw Harry as the best vehicle towards fulfilling that vision, and so he threw his entire weight behind the up-and-coming ruler.

So what was her greater good? She'd pondered that for a while, to no avail. She'd lived the past two years effectively chaining herself to Harry's vision, with almost nary a thought towards any other sort of lifetime pursuit. When she'd realized she could never become a mage, she'd become his deadliest infiltrator. When he needed critical information, she was the one he called for. When he needed someone absolutely out of the way, she was the one he nominated.

But beyond that, who was she? What did she want? What was she fighting for? Was it just Harry? Did that just mean she would fall apart when he inevitably died? Hadn't he taught her better than that while in his care? Would she keep killing in the name of any progeny he had? Or whomever it was that succeeded him? Didn't that just make her a tool?

The week leading up to this day had been agonizing as she pondered this dilemma, all the while carrying out executions in the name of stability. For a moment, she'd pondered on simply adopting Xeno's vision as her own, but quickly realized that such a thing would make it superfluous, at best. Whatever she decided upon, it would have to be born out of her own passions.

So what was it? Freedom? Justice? Revenge? Hate? What did she believe in? What was her ideal world like?

It was around then that she'd started praying again for the first time since she was about five years old. In some corner of her mind, she knew it was a meaningless exercise, but she recalled how doing this usually had her clear her mind of all other things as she focused on reciting the words she knew dutifully.

It was after seven days of such praying that she finally came upon her answer — much faster than she'd thought it'd be (considering how movies and books pretty much seemed to state that journeys of self-discovery tended to take decades or some such). Her vision was simple: a world of order and justice, so that no other child would have to grow up the way she did.

It was a bit naive, she knew, and just as unlikely to be fulfilled, but it was enough to light up her soul the same way fighting for Harry's vision had. Even better, it meshed quite well with Harry's pronounced vision for the world!

Ending her prayer, Josefina clapped her hands once and then got to her feet, her hands already reaching up to tie her silky black hair into a bun — there was nothing more annoying than having your vision blocked mid-operation by your own hair. Coming out of her private room — she guessed the rookie from before hadn't been told not to go there — she saw a cadre of similar operatives waiting for her, already geared up.

A moment of silence passed as she regarded them before she nodded with finality. "Alright then. Let's go to work," she ordered.

* * *

_**Liverpool Cathedral, Kingdom of the Northern Sun...**_

Fourteen years.

Fourteen years since he'd first begun down his path towards absolute power. Fourteen years since he'd graduated from Liverpool College and entered Welbeck, where his military career effectively began. Fourteen years of training, breaking up with Elicia, getting back with Elicia, becoming the first test run of the Military Mages, the Anglo-Spanish War, the Great Reveal, the London Unrest, Buckingham, the death of the last king, the Northern-London Split, the Civil War, the Manchester Event, and now the Anglo-Death Eater War.

Fourteen years where he'd been a student, then a recruit, then a Second Lieutenant, working his way all the way up to Colonel, then General, then Field Marshal, then head of an entire nation. He'd been a prisoner and a war hero. He'd brought order through peaceful means, and peace through destruction.

He'd presided over the worst catastrophe of modern times during the Manchester Event, and his fiancee helped develop the solution to it. He'd forced the mages into the world stage, and led a portion of it to infamy and hero worship.

He was now 31 years old, and he was about to become King.

The ringing of the cathedral bells hadn't stopped all day long, not even now as he slowly and meaningfully made his way up the stone steps leading to the open cathedral doors, within which he could see throngs of well-wishers and dignitaries from throughout the Northern territories all cheering for him.

It was all utterly insane.

How could he have known that the dream he'd held as a child, to achieve the power to dictate law unto his enemies, would have finally come true? Certainly, he hadn't made it as early as he wished he could have — his personal target back then being age 20, like Alexander the Great — but the mere fact that he had managed to achieve this much before he even turned forty in these modern times was a miracle in itself.

A miracle, some might say, he engineered.

But Harry cared not for the mumblings of his enemies, so long as they remained only that. He knew his meteoric rise to power would fuel the jealousies of those who'd failed to do the same. It was the inevitable destiny of those who reached the peak to be envied by his lessers.

He paused at the doors, allowing his sight to fully take in this moment, for it would only come about once in his lifetime. This was his moment of total victory — over fourteen years of scheming, hard work, and sacrifice, all culminating in this one moment.

With a satisfied smile, he waited as his honor guard — a mix of the finest Military Mages and normal soldiers in the North — passed by him, lining up at the sides of the red carpet that led right up to the gilded throne atop the cathedral's dais. Like him, they wore their dress uniforms, their left breasts glistening with medals and other commendations. Had this been the Britain of old, these men and women would've been replaced with members of the Order of the Garter, but no such organization existed now. There were only those he trusted, and those he didn't.

Hmm, perhaps he ought to change that? After all, offering the incentive of joining a select group of individuals who hold the king's ear would be enough to get a lot of good people to show off their abilities...

Once his honor guard was in place, he took a single step into the cathedral and felt the moment wash over him. It was surreal. Up until he'd taken this one step, he'd had a small part of him wondering if this was just all a dream...but now he knew this rush couldn't be simulated in a dream. There was no way the hot air of thousands of people shouting in celebration could be so realistically mimicked. This was real. He really was about to fulfill his dream.

The shouting only became louder as he neared the dais, the force of these actually managing to drown out the choral music the cathedral's landlords had painstakingly chosen and rehearsed for his coronation. It would've been a simple matter to silence the entire cathedral, of course, but Harry decided to let them vent out their warm feelings of support.

He smiled in self-satisfaction as he continued his trek down the red carpet, never once taking his eyes off of the throne that awaited him.

* * *

_**Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun (one hour ago)...**_

"...is this true, Sirius?"

Sirius sighed as he contemplated the woman in front of him. He could still remember when she'd been nary eighteen years old, bright-faced, optimistic, and willing to take on the world if it meant discovering new things. Now, she was a thirty-ish woman to whom life had not been kind, given the heartbroken look Elicia wore.

It was unfortunate, but somehow Elicia had managed to become informed of the army's activities north of the Babylon Wall. Well, more informed than the rest of the population, who thought that the army was hard at work pacifying the Death Eater territories.

Then again, it wasn't really "somehow." More like, the man next to her had flat out told her, from the look of things.

"The operation was confidential, Wenshi," Sirius told the man sternly, ignoring Elicia's question while he mentally formulated a proper answer. "You do realize what you've done?"

"My duty," came the calm and collected answer from Neville as he remained by Elicia's side, his arms crossed. "This operation is a travesty of everything we've ever fought for. It has to stop."

"So, instead of going to Harry, you ratted him out to his fiancee?" the Prime Minister asked with a frown.

"He won't listen to me."

Sirius' frown deepened as he realized Neville was quite right. Harry trusted Neville almost above all others in the military, but that didn't mean he was open to Neville's suggestions. To be fair, though, Neville hadn't ever gone against him in any meaningful way, either.

"Why do you ignore me, Sirius?"

Sirius grimaced as Elicia spoke up again, her expression still heartbroken, but also clearly irritated. "Just trying to find a good answer, Ellie," he stated. "It's not a simple situation."

"It's genocide," she shot back in a clipped tone.

Sirius flinched at the word, then sighed, his shoulders slumping. She was right, of course, and he _had_ warned Harry of as much. "It was the only way," he said in a tone that didn't exactly convey full confidence in his own answer.

"For what?" she asked, much more calmly this time.

"To end the Death Eater threat," he answered. "They're fanatics; they have no regard for scientific proofs or negotiation. Even if we defeated them in battle, all they'd do is take any peace we force on them as time to lick their wounds and then they'd come back; it's happened before," he reminded her, thinking back to the gap between the First and Second Dark War.

"And so the only conclusion you could come up with was: kill them all?" she asked, disappointed. "Sirius, what happened to you? You were once such an upstanding man."

"Rule changes you," Sirius told her with a frown. "And yet, I opposed the decision. In fact, I still do; but I do understand where the military is coming from. The Death Eaters can't be reasoned with beyond a minimal fraction of their numbers. Those have already surrendered and are being treated within the purview of the law. The rest, however, are too dangerous to allow to wander."

"The rest may not be as monolithic as you think," Neville spoke up then. Pushing himself off the column he'd been resting against, he walked over to a side door and spoke a few quiet words before coming back to Elicia's side. Soon after, a young woman, her hands cuffed and in chains, was escorted in by a man in Military Mage uniform.

The young woman was obviously terrified of everyone in the room, given her extreme shaking, and it was only made worse as the Military Mage pushed her to the spot between Elicia's seat and Sirius, putting her effectively between the Prime Minister of the Northern Sun and the future Queen-to-be.

"State your name, Death Eater," Neville ordered, once again resting against his column.

"C-C..." the woman stuttered, the chains audibly rattling from all her trembling. "C-Cecilia, m-milords..."

Elicia looked horrified at the woman's treatment, and quickly rounded upon Neville to chastise him. Sirius, however, beat her to it.

"Wenshi, what is the meaning of this?" the Prime Minister asked dangerously.

"She was caught this morning in Sector 5," Neville stated simply with a shrug. "She attempted to resist, but I quickly subdued her."

"The order said to kill," Sirius pointed out.

"She was different," Neville said with a shrug. "Cecilia, do you wish to defy the Northern Sun?" he asked her pointedly.

"Neville, that's enough!" Elicia chided the man. "Can't you see the poor girl's terrified?"

"Answer, woman," Neville ordered Cecilia, ignoring Elicia's protest.

"N-No!" the woman cried out, cringing from Neville. "I-I don't want to fight!"

"Yet you did not surrender when the ultimatum was given, and you resisted when the soldiers came for you," Sirius pointed out.

"Enough, both of you!" Elicia shouted as she got to her feet. "Whomever she followed, she's still a human being! This is inhumane!"

"Up until I showed her to you, you didn't know she even existed," Neville pointed out. "Cecilia, why did you resist?"

"T-They made me!" she all but yelled her answer, quickly grasping for Elicia's skirt and clinging at it like a safety blanket. "D-Daddy did! M-mum too! T-They said w-we had to s-s-stand and fight against the M-mudbloods and M-muggles!"

"A likely excuse," Sirius pointed out with a dismissive wave before rounding on Neville. "Is this why you spared her? Because she concocted a story about being forced to resist?"

"She's not the only one," Neville stated, keeping one eye on Elicia while she crouched by the younger woman and tried to calm her down. There was no risk of the Death Eater harming her in any significant way, given that her chains were sucking her dry of any magic. "There are maybe thousands who are saying the same thing. And it makes sense, too; the younger generations in mage society have very little say; the idea of parents and elders abusing their trust is very credible."

"Is _she_ credible?" Sirius asked, waving towards the snivelling young woman.

Neville nodded. "She is. I called in a favor from a Mind Reader buddy, and he verified it. She's completely honest."

"Then why is she still in chains, Neville?" Elicia asked in a low, dangerous tone as she rose to her full height and stared up at him. "She is an innocent, dragged into a slaughter!"

"To make a point," Neville stated as he stared at Sirius. "This wholesale slaughter is hurting us more than you think, Sirius, whatever other gains we may have made. Any Death Eater who survives the purge but never wanted to fight in the first place will hold a grudge like no other. That's a long term security risk we can't ignore."

"Not to mention what those that initially surrendered will do when they find out what's happened to the other Death Eaters," Elicia weighed in. "This isn't the sort of thing you can just sweep under the proverbial rug, Sirius. Eventually people will find out."

Sirius sighed in frustration as he palmed his face, really hating the fact that they were even having this discussion to begin with. Hell, he'd never even wanted things to go this far, but that damned Hughes had whispered in Harry's ear for so long that the soon-to-be monarch had practically forgotten he had a whole council of ministers!

"Fine," he consented at last. "I'll talk to Harry, see if we can't make him stop this senseless slaughter."

"No," Elicia was quick to protest, surprising both men. "I will," she told them without any hesitation. "Harry wants to marry me because he loves me, and I love him; he'll listen to what I have to say, or else he's not the man I thought he was."

Both Sirius and Neville exchanged glances at this pronouncement, obviously hesitant to acquiesce the woman's declaration, but soon gave in with tired smiles.

"As you wish," Neville stated with a nod.

"Quite," Sirius agreed. "It'll have to be after the ceremony, of course."

Elicia nodded firmly, dissipating Sirius' worries that she might back down on this once faced with Harry's own implacable will.

That's right...Elicia had always been the firebrand between the two, hadn't she? She was always the one who'd brought Harry back to earth back when they were still schoolchildren, and she'd bring him back down to earth now, when he was about to be King.

To Sirius, it looked like a small ray of light had finally pierced the swelling darkness that had threatened to consume the Northern Sun.

* * *

_**Liverpool Cathedral, Kingdom of the Northern Sun...**_

Harry's mind was full of people he'd met across his journey to the top. Hundreds, if not thousands of faces came to mind as he reflected on his rise to power; some allies, some enemies, some family, and one lover.

John Lyles, his best friend from Liverpool College, now half-estranged due to his choice to not get involved in Harry's morally ambiguous cause.

Elicia Eisenheim, his fiancee and the love of his life. His anchor amidst the chaos that was his life.

Lee, O'Brian, Donahue, and the rest of his squadmates from Welbeck College. Always a fun crew to hang out with, before the war in Spain took all their lives.

The old man from the crystal shop in Diagon Alley, back when it still existed, who introduced him to fuel crystals.

The panel that had effectively outed him as a mage in the armed forces, only to then make him the first ever Military Mage.

Speirs, the only colleague he really connected with during the Anglo-Spanish War, now one of his most trusted subordinates.

Major Miles, his CO during the war, tragically killed by a sniper.

Colonel Strider, who'd officially designated him for the first time as a Military Mage.

Josefina, the war orphan he'd saved with Hughes from rape, now his deadliest spy and assassin.

Albert Hughes...

Ah, Albert Hughes.

His reminiscence stopped dead at the name. In a way, Albert Hughes could perhaps be credited as one of the main reasons the Northern Sun had ever managed to come into being. While Harry had initially thought the man to be a simple military intelligence officer with a knack for ruthlessness, Hughes had quickly proved him wrong, becoming one of his greatest strategists.

Vicious and cunning, Hughes' strategies were as unconventional as they could be, bringing victory to the Northern forces by means of deception, brutality, sacrifice, and assassination. His "Path of Darkness," as he called it, effectively thrived on such things. The more outrageously horrific the strategy, the more likely it would work miracles.

In fact, it had been Hughes' advice that had led to Operation Downfall, by which the Death Eaters would be wiped off the face of the Britannic Isles.

A chime broke him out of his reverie, and he quickly realized that he'd reached the bottom of the dais. Had he really been so out of it as that? Well, no matter. The coronation would proceed as scheduled, and his destiny was at hand.

He waited there, at the foot of the steps, as the small congregation of preachers and monks of various faiths invited the masses to their own style of prayer — amusingly, to Harry, they all seemed to say the same thing, except to different deities — before a man in a snappy black suit approached, another man at his side holding the new Crown of the Northern Sun on a velvet pillow with golden frills.

"Francis White, nee Harry James Potter, you have been summoned to this place of worship to heed the calls of the Peoples of the Northern Sun to rule as King. Do you accept this charge?" the man asked solemnly.

There was no need for hesitation. "I do."

"Do you, Francis White, nee Harry James Potter, accept with this charge, the duty of protecting the integrity of the borders of the Northern Sun?"

"I do."

"Do you, Francis White, nee Harry James Potter, accept the duty of protecting the Peoples of the Northern Sun from enemies foreign or domestic?"

Harry had to give it to the organizers of this ceremony; they sure knew their stuff, even if certain parts seemed to repeat themselves unnecessarily. "I do."

"Do you, Francis White, nee Harry James Potter, accept the duty of protecting the beliefs, faiths, and freedoms of the Peoples of the Northern Sun, regardless of your own prejudices?"

Easy question. After all, they would sooner or later convert of their own free will to his cause. "I do."

"Then kneel, and accept the symbol of your accepted duties," the man intoned.

Privately thinking that this would certainly be the last time he was forced to kneel before anyone, Harry did as commanded, his eyes humbly pointed to the ground, his head inclined forward, ready to accept the crown.

The suited man gave a solemn nod before turning to his assistant and raising the crown off its pillow, the red and gold headwear glistening in the artificial light within the Cathedral. "Forged for this very moment, this crown represents the united sentiment of the Peoples of the Northern Sun to, on this day, raise a mere man above the rest, to guide our nascent nation to its glorious destiny," he pronounced, and the sound of many of those in the crowd kneeling resounded thunderously. "Let it be a symbol of peace, freedom of thought, justice, order, and liberty!"

With that said, he stepped down from the dais towards Harry and stopped just in front of him, crown still raised. "It is my honor, and solemn duty, to hereby crown thee, Henry, King of the Northern Sun! May your reign be peaceful and prosperous to all!"

* * *

_**Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun (half an hour ago)...**_

"William! What a pleasant surprise!"

Baron Warwick had never felt more honest in his words than right then. The younger Potter sibling had been off to Spain on a favor from him for more than a few weeks now, and hadn't been expecting his return for another couple of weeks more.

"My brother is becoming King, Joshua," the stoic Potter noted neutrally as he removed his coat, revealing a rather tussled outfit. "It seemed an appropriate moment to return. And besides, I have news."

Joshua's eyes narrowed, thankful that they were in his secure office in Liverpool, rather than at the Cathedral, where he was _technically_ supposed to be. "What kind of news?"

"Not good," William answered plainly. "Potentially terrible."

"Explain."

"The Spanish, thanks to our post-war efforts in helping them rebuild, despite our own issues, have fallen into line, but, as I warned my brother and yourself, this has caused a great deal of disconcertion amongst our neighbours."

"You mean the French," it wasn't a question.

William nodded. "Indeed. They think we're trying to supplant them as the most powerful country in Europe, and almost none of our entreaties seem to have dispelled that concern," he reported, explaining for once the man's disheveled appearance. He must've taken the first portkey back from Madrid to inform them of this development.

Joshua would've bet a considerable amount of privately owned land that William had even forgotten his suitcase back in Madrid. "So it's likely to be war?"

"Naturally," William agreed. "But not yet. Our last appeal has had them calm down a bit, and the Ambassador wasn't as willing to chew my head off, but there's no doubt about it; sooner or later, the French will go to war with us. The fact that we're crowning a mage while they're persecuting theirs all but guarantees it."

Joshua sighed. "And here I'd thought we'd finally be able to rest on our laurels for a while."

"With my brother in charge? Not likely."

Another sigh. "How long do you figure we have?"

William eyed the Baron critically. Eventually deciding to be as blunt about as possible, he stated his truthful opinion. "At the rate things will deteriorate once the news of my brother's crowning hits? We have maybe two years while they gear up their war machine."

Joshua grimaced. "Then that's two years to gear up ours."

* * *

_**Liverpool Cathedral, Kingdom of the Northern Sun...**_

Cheering erupted as the crown touched Harry's head, and to be honest, he was hard pressed not to cheer himself. Still, he beared with the impulse to celebrate his own victory with grace as he rose up to his full height and turned, raising his hands in a welcoming pose.

"A new age is upon us!" he declared, amidst the cheers of his followers. Eyeing a particular section of the Cathedral, he saw Sirius, Elicia, his father, mother, and sister, and the others of his inner circle watching, clapping, but not cheering — perhaps as a sign of dignified encouragement? "The age of the Northern Sun! Let history bear witness to the birth of this great nation! A nation of peace, justice, and order, where the creeds, talents, and beliefs of the world may coexist in harmony!"

Regular cheering gave way to wild applause and cheering as Harry's words reassured the populace of their choice. And throughout it all, Harry — now Henry I of the Northern Sun — soaked it all up, revelling in this moment, where his ambitions and the promise to the last king were finally completed.

He had finally done it. He had become king.

And the United Kingdom was no more.

* * *

**_AN: So Harry is now king, and yet an ideological battle is brewing within his own group of confidantes. Nevermind that he still has those pesky Death Eater Inner Circle jerks hanging about. What's going to happen to his triumph? Tune in next time!_  
**

**_As always, any helpful suggestions or comments are appreciated. Also, the poll is hereby closed. Thanks to everyone who took the time to vote! The next LoU chapter will be up when I'm done rewriting the sorry excuse that was the first draft!_**

**_Cheers,_**

**_MB_**

**_PS: Oh yeah, nearly forgot. Any artistically inclined readers out there willing to create the flag of the Northern Sun as the cover for this story? I'd do it myself, but anything I create is a crime against art, in my experience. __**


	21. Chapter XIX: A Question of Loyalty

_**AN: **Woo! Still around, still writing! As you may recall, last chapter we left off with a budding ideological battle between those who support the government's genocidal campaign against the Death Eaters, and those who don't. This chapter will **not** be ending that feud, merely their current point of contention._

_Also, thanks to Eleutheria Wolf and JumpFrog, I now have two flags to choose from to serve as both the cover for this story **and** the official flag of the Northern Sun. These will be posted in a poll shortly, wherein I'd like all of you to help me pick perhaps not the best one, but rather the most adequate representation of the Kingdom of the Northern Sun._

_More notes at the bottom!_

_Hope you like the chapter!_

_-**MB**_

* * *

_**Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, January 31st, 2012...**_

A new capital to suit a new nation.

That was Liverpool.

While many had come to accept that as the base of Harry's operations Liverpool would naturally become the focus of the North, its official declaration as the capital of the Northern Sun didn't come until New Year's Eve, when amidst the celebrations Harry pronounced it so during a televised appearance.

Reactions were, obviously, quite mixed.

For those who'd lived in the North for quite some time, the move was greatly welcomed, as it not only cemented their position as living close to the new capital, but also made real estate prices shoot up, suddenly providing many, many families with a lot more wealth.

Thankfully, the economic consequences were minimized thanks in part to the Civil War. Because of its devastating consequences to southern England, many of the major business interests who hadn't fled North to begin with had done so during the initial stages of reconstruction, with many major corporations now headquartered in Liverpool's growing Financial District. Therefore, there was no massive exodus towards Liverpool the moment the new capital was announced, though it did hurt the slumping city of London, who'd lost most of its major businesses in the move.

Not that they were the only ones suffering, however.

Throughout the southern provinces, locals noticed a distinctly northern shift in their business locales, with more and more industries and workers gravitating as north as they could towards Liverpool. The accepted convention amongst the populace in the south was that the further north one went, the better the pay.

It wasn't entirely untrue.

However, it _was_ of some concern to the new Chancellor of the Exchequer, who despite his Goblin nature was very much concerned with keeping the economy of the _whole_ country going — though his reasoning, naturally, was that a slumping area of the country would inevitably trickle down its consequences to Goblin interests, regardless of geographical positioning.

He wasn't the only one worried, either.

Ragnok knew for a fact that the newly appointed Minister of the Masses, James Potter, was also concerned about the slow but steady decay of the South in spite of the Council of Engineers and Architects' efforts to rebuild the devastated South to Northern standards. While police numbers were quite high and volunteers were not in short supply, James was worried that further slumping would drive the south to unsustainable crime rates.

Which, for Ragnok, was unacceptable.

Not just because of the monetary issue this presented, but because it would reflect badly on him and his race if he didn't put a lid on the issue. He was well aware that as the sole non-human on the Royal Cabinet, he was under increased scrutiny from the public and any slip up would see his power stripped from his clawed hands and placed back in control of the humans.

A deduction which had revealed a gaping flaw in their plan to use the Goblins' vast wealth as leverage over the newly crowned king.

Briefly put, the Goblins realized that they were no longer vital to the functioning of society. While they had occupied such a status under wizard rule (as only their bank existed in the nation and served _all_ of the magical population's financial needs), there were literally a myriad of competitors in the wider world that were ready and eager to take their place at a single sign of a screw up.

Realizing this, Ragnok knew that, whatever his Goblin compatriots thought, there was much, much more on the line than they imagined.

"Sir, the Buckingham delegation is here for your one o'clock appointment," his human orderly announced via the intriguing machine he'd been told was an 'intercom.'

Pushing the red button near the speaker as he'd been taught, Ragnok nodded (unnecessarily). "Very well, let them in," he stated before letting go of the button. Not for the first time, he admired the ingenuity of these non-magic-using humans. In that sense, he felt the Goblin nation had been vindicated in siding with Potter's hair-brained yet amazingly inspiring crusade to unite both worlds.

Now, if only his people's future wasn't riding on his every action.

Take the fellows coming into his office, for instance. Much like the delegation he'd met with two hours ago, these people (and he used the term loosely) were here to ostensibly demand that the North stop attracting local businesses away from them, as it was hurting their local economy. For some reason, these idiots seemed to think that he had the power to magically make humans stop being greedy or driven by ambition. Could he help it if they thought there was more fertile ground for business up north than in their home cities?

Well, according to these folks, he could. But then none of _them_ served in a government ministry.

Not that he hadn't considered pushing for a law that made such moves towards nothern cities increasingly hard, however. He had, and he'd even had a task force assembled to look into the pros and cons of doing so. The problem was that the cons had a massive advantage over the pros, to such a point where even the most insane person in government (quite possibly Harry himself, in Ragnok's opinion) would never vote for it.

So instead he had to play host for these outraged citizens and then put his foot down and let them know nothing was going to change. Rather, if they wanted to retain their local businesses, they ought to pass local legislation making to make the prospect of staying, or coming to the city, more attractive.

Naturally, as he explained this to the delegation from Buckingham (and generally all the others who came with the same damned complaint), they accused him of deliberately ignoring their complaints because they were human, which was quite incorrect. He wasn't brushing them aside because they were human, but because he could not feasibly deliver what they wanted without causing massive repercussions to the rest of the nation.

And then, of course, there was this rising tension within Potter's inner circle. As a Goblin, he wasn't deliberately excluded from it, but nor was he deliberately included either. More accurately, it would be best to say that Potter trusted them _enough_ at this point. Not well enough to qualify as confidantes, but not bad enough to remain in the dark regarding the way the decision-making process worked.

With this came a surprisingly neutral position of the growing conflict he'd observed within the newly-crowned king's entourage.

On the one hand, those he saw rallying around what he properly identified as Albert Hughes' extreme ideology of destroying the enemy to their bones. Willing to go to any lengths to keep the nation they'd built safe, they were ruthless and brutal, but no less loyal to Harry than anyone else. If anything, Ragnok would've gone as far as to say that these were the new king's most fanatical followers. The only problem he really had with them is that they had a very loose definition of what counted as an "enemy" of the state. Something which wasn't just bad for business, but also bad for his own health, should they ever deem his actions (truthfully or not) to be against the interests of the nation.

On the other hand were those who were starting to gravitate towards the future Queen (and no one was dumb enough to think she'd be anything other than that), who despite her best attempts to keep it quiet, was quite opposed to the genocide happening up in the Death Eater territories. While the operation itself had slowed down substantially, in part thanks to the quiet intervention of the future Queen's allies, they were prevented from completely stopping the killings by the king, who was determined to see the plan through.

For a moment, even as he tuned out another angry delegation insulting his parentage and race, he pondered whether another civil war would break out, this one between these two factions of the Northern government. Obviously, such a conflict would be catastrophic for the nascent nation — a fact he was willing to bet every last coin of his considerable wealth that both sides knew well, thereby explaining their lack of hostile action towards each other.

Humans were such strange creatures, Ragnok mused as he bade a vague farewell to his latest delegation of malcontents. The two sides had been companionable allies all this time, fighting against common foes. Yet, the moment these common foes disappeared, they were at each other's throats. Hell, the only common ground they both seemed to have is that they trusted Harry to take their nation to a brighter future.

They just disagreed on what that future looked like.

He pressed his intercom. "Michael, are there any further delegations coming from the south?" he asked his secretary.

"_No, sir_," the young human male answered back. "_You do have dinner scheduled with the Small and Medium Business Board at the Hillbark Hotel at six, however, and the Industry Secretary wants a word regarding the new zoning laws being pushed by the CEA._"

Ragnok sighed. Who knew there was so much to do as a Minister of the Northern Crown?

"Very well. Keep the books clear till dinner, and tell Smithers we'll have to chat about the zoning laws tomorrow," he instructed. It would be a cold day in hell when he'd agree to talk to that irritating rat Smithers after eight in the evening. The man was practically bought out by the industrial sector, and everyone knew it. The only reason Ragnok hadn't reported him to the authorities was because despite being corrupt, Smithers was actually rather good at appeasing the greedy imbeciles whenever official policy crossed them.

Which once again brought the question of the conflicting factions to mind. Should he support one over the other? Was that even necessary? After all, the Goblins had nothing to gain on either side; this wasn't about greater territory or any such material gain — this was purely for the sake of ideology and morality, neither of which particularly interested the mercantile non-human race.

No, Ragnok reflected as he swiveled in his chair to look out the window at the wonderfully illuminated skyline of Liverpool, better to stay out of it and let them tear each other apart. Whoever won...well...the Goblins would endure.

* * *

_**Northampton, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, February 1st, 2012..**_

"She's really coming into her role, isn't she?"

Neville grunted in assent as he watched Elicia smile and mingle amongst the elementary students of the school she was officially visiting. As the King's fiancée, she was expected to share in certain royal duties — her own job notwithstanding — and while she'd put her foot down on not going to any event that promoted warfare or violence, she'd acquiesced to visiting schools, hospitals, and other charitable organizations.

While Neville was technically supposed to be assigned to the genocidal campaign up north, thankfully slowed down thanks in no small part to Elicia and her friendship with Speirs and Curtis, she'd specifically requested for him to be her primary bodyguard — most likely, in his opinion, because she didn't trust any of Astoria's men and women _not_ to report any misgivings she might have towards the King's actions.

This visit also afforded a nice opportunity to talk shop with the future Queen regarding their plans to completely stop the genocide up north. Back in Liverpool, they were hard pressed to find a place that _wasn't_ bugged, while the decidedly less important city of Northampton was a much less surveilled area.

"Though, I've got to say, I never thought the King would settle for his childhood flame as a Queen," the thoughtless man next to Neville continued, causing Neville to snap his head in the man's direction and glare.

"Lady Eisenheim," he carefully used Elicia's formal title, knowing the man in question was a member of a local tabloid. "Is a capable woman in her own right; the mere fact you can use your phone to call your wife Marcia and your son Eric back home is thanks in no small part to her," he reminded the man tersely.

The man started at that. "How'd you know ab—"

Neville snorted. "Please. You seriously think we'd let you within a mile of the future Queen without properly investigating you?" he asked sarcastically. "And here I thought reporters were smart."

Whatever the man was about to say was drowned out by the happy squeals of entertained children as Elicia reached a particularly enjoyable part of the story she was reading to them. To Neville, she looked about as happy as possible, her brilliant smile lighting up her face and making her look radiant.

Sighing, he made a mental note to have the reporter's mind altered, lest he read into Neville's ardent defense of Elicia and make the erroneous assumption that perhaps he either harbored feelings for her or they were having an affair, as tabloids were wont to do.

Hell, might as well take care of that now.

Glancing to his left, he made eye contact with another of Elicia's bodyguards — also a mage — and gave an almost-imperceptible nod and glance towards the reporter, which the woman returned before politely excusing herself with a smile to the future Queen and making a show of having to speak with the reporter outside about some information or another.

As soon as the door closed behind them, he heard the reporter's muffled questions before they were subsequently cut short by a brief flash of red light. Within the minute, the bodyguard and the reporter came in, the latter with an almost blank look in his eyes. Both Neville and the bodyguard exchanged nods before she returned to her post at the future Queen's side, smiling at the awed children at Elicia's feet.

Not that Elicia hadn't noticed what had gone on, though.

"That was a strange thing, with the reporter," she commented lightly hours later as they rode back to her hotel. Across from her, eyes closed and arms crossed as he relaxed in his seat, Neville grunted in assent as a sign he was listening. "Did you alter his memories?"

"I didn't."

"But Rosa did, didn't she?" Elicia asked calmly. "You know how I feel about that."

"He was going to slander you," Neville simply stated. "It was the lesser of two evils."

"How's that?"

"Harry would've had him and every reporter at his paper hung."

Elicia's expression darkened for a moment before sighing sadly as she looked out the window. "He's not that far gone yet, I don't think," she said simply.

"Perhaps not, but every day Hughes keeps whispering in his ear is another inch he creeps closer to the edge," Neville pointed out. "Sirius says he's got another two MPs willing to back us against the genocide, by the way."

Elicia nodded absently, taking in the sights of Northampton and sighing sadly as she recalled the city in her youth, when it was much more lively. The war had truly taken its toll on every inch of English soil, hadn't it? "That's good."

"William says he won't support us, but neither will he support the genocide; he just wants the conflict out of our minds in favour of the greater picture. Warwick agrees," Neville further reported.

Elicia laughed briefly. "Willie did always hate to get involved in what he sees as squabbles."

"And Warwick is a politician through and through; he won't pick any sides until the situation is about to get resolved; better to come out winning," Neville added in.

"Quite," she agreed before returning to silence. They remained such for a while, each in their own thoughts, before she spoke up again. "Neville, you won't lie to me, will you?"

"Depends on the question, milady," he answered honestly.

"Well, at least you're honest about that," she said with a forlorn smile. "How far will you go to stop Harry?"

There was silence as Neville contemplated the question; it was one he'd asked himself quite a few times since this whole debacle had started.

"I won't kill him, or allow him to be killed," Neville answered simply. "Whatever I may feel about the genocide, Harry's still our leader, and it's his vision that carries this nation. I won't endanger that."

Elicia smiled at his answer. "Good. He's just been listening to bad advice, Neville; he's not evil, deep down. I know that. I can still see the good in him every time he lends his powers to build new homes, or to give food to the disenfranchised."

"Hughes and his people will not see it that way; they favour a strong, ruthless leader," Neville pointed out. "And many more will see sense in that; as a new nation, we will likely exist on the brink of war for many years to come."

"The nation must always be for the people, even if it is perhaps not led by the people," Elicia recited with a smile before sighing and leaning against the window. "Harry used to say that all the time back when we were younger," she recalled fondly. "Before he became a soldier."

"War changes people," Neville agreed, thinking back on his own experiences. Even as an Auror, he'd always avoided violence until it was a last resort; becoming a Military Mage had practically numbed him to the idea of it.

"It does, doesn't it?" Elicia sighed sadly this time. Both returned to companionable silence then for a moment, before a sudden jerk in the car almost threw them from their seats (thank goodness for seatbelts!).

"What on earth?" Elicia asked aloud as she rubbed her chest where the friction burns were causing her some pain.

Neville, however, was instantly on alert mode. There was no reason for the car to stop so suddenly, especially not here, right on the outskirts of the city. "Stay down and wait here," he ordered Elicia as he raised a hand to his comm bead. "This is Wenshi to all units; status report."

"_We don't know what's going on, sir; the cars just stopped!_" came the immediate answer.

Well, _that_ was bullshit. Cars didn't just break down for no reason; especially not all four in a caravan at the same time. Obviously there was more to this than at first glance, and his militarily-trained mind was yelling 'ambush' at him.

"I'm with ATHENA," he reported back to the others. "Form a defensive perimeter around our car and hold out for reinforcements!" he didn't wait for confirmation before quickly switching channels to the emergency communications one. "This is Wenshi to all nearby units; convoy has broken down, suspect malicious involvement. Please be advised that ATHENA is present and requires extraction!"

"I'm fine, Neville!" Elicia protested.

Neville ignored her. "I say again; ATHENA is aboard the convoy and requires immediate extraction. Rendezvous at the following coordinates," he gave them quickly and then repeated them to make sure. "Any units hearing this message, please copy!"

To his growing apprehension, no one responded. Outside, he could hear the rest of Elicia's escort finishing their preparations. What on earth was going on? The Death Eaters were all but wiped out, and the last remnants of the Chiefs of Staff's forces were in jail or executed. So who had...well...the _balls_ to strike at the future Queen of the Northern Sun?

The sound of an explosion soon answered his musings, causing him to quickly reach for Elicia and hold her close as he tried to Apparate out, only to find, to his growing horror, that he was unable to.

Wards.

"Perimeter, report in!" he shouted into his comm bead, just as another explosion rocked the car. "Where are those mages coming from?!"

"_Sir, it's not just mages!_" the man was cut off by another explosion before continuing. "_Southern flank is reporting normals attacking with automatic weaponry!_"

Neville grit his teeth. Fantastic. Just his luck that the terrorists who bombed Manchester would finally get drawn out into the open with their presumed masters right when the future Queen was in mid-transit.

Just goes to show he _wasn't_ being a paranoid ninny when he tried to press for Portkey travel.

"Any identifying markings?" he demanded.

"Neville, what's going on?!" Elicia asked worriedly. Obviously, she knew she was under attack, but it still begged the question as to _why_.

"_None, sir! They're just firing indiscriminately!_" the mage on the other end reported. Another small explosion sounded out. "_Southern perimeter has managed to scatter their attackers! We're reinforcing the north!_"

Neville knew instantly that was a bad idea. "No! Don't!" he barked into his comm bead. "Maintain the perimeter! It could be a feint in order to reach ATHENA," he reminded them.

"_Copy that, Wenshi. All units, stay in formation!_"

It was fortunate, in hindsight, that the Northern troops were so well trained, for the attack, while quite dangerous and managing to kill a few of Elicia's retinue, was held off long enough for the attackers to eventually withdraw, their prize denied to them.

"_Enemy forces retreating!_" Neville heard over the radio. "_Request permission to pursue!_"

Neville considered that. Pursuing obviously meant just going after the terrorists, since the mages would Apparate away the moment the wards came down, and if it meant capturing some of these idiots alive for interrogation, then perhaps they could worm out the location of the other cells — an oversight of Josefina's, who had the Manchester cell executed to the last man for their crimes.

"Break off a unit and have them pursue," Neville replied, ignoring Elicia's questions about the situation. "But keep the perimeter secure. Once comms are back up, we'll evacuate."

"_Roger that. Commencing pursuit._"

Gunfire erupted again as the units outside commenced their sally, leaving Neville to think of their next step.

"Neville, what on earth is going on?!" Elicia demanded, sick and tired of being ignored. "What pursuit? What happened outside?!"

"Mage and terrorist collaborative attack," Neville explained succinctly. "They've started retreating, so I'm driving them away so we can get you out of here."

"Can't we just start up the car?!" Elicia asked.

Neville stared at her before trying the keys. As expected, nothing happened upon turning. "These didn't have the new batteries installed yet. The moment the wards came up, we were dead in the water."

Elicia nodded in understanding as she pondered on the situation. Not for the first time since this whole situation began, she regretted being in an official dress, as opposed to the casual clothing she preferred. "Are your comm beads still out?"

Neville nodded. "There seems to be some sort of jamming signal blocking our transmissions from getting out of this area."

Elicia nodded before holding out her hand. "Give it here," she ordered.

Hesitating only for a moment, Neville took out his comm bead and handed it over, watching as Elicia inspected it every which way before grimacing. "Ugh. Electronics. Never been too good with them, but let's see what I can cook up," she mumbled to herself modestly.

To Neville and, more importantly, Harry, Elicia was brilliant beyond measure. While that may in fact be a hyperbolic way of describing her intellect, there was nonetheless ample evidence to categorize the future Queen as a pioneer in future technology. Not only had she led the team that developed the Fuel Crystal Energy Generators and the revolutionary magical batteries, she had postulated the possibility of many more innovative devices that could greatly help the Northern Sun.

Elicia, for her part, didn't consider herself brilliant by any measure. All her creations she attributed to group effort, and while not universally loved, she did enjoy some measure of respect from the scientific community for her modesty.

Plus, whatever achievements Harry and Neville used to idolize her, she had many, _many_ more failed projects they conveniently chose to ignore.

Neville blinked as he realized Elicia was now working with a small screwdriver. Where had she gotten that from?

"I always carry emergency tools on me, just in case," she explained with a self-deprecating smile. Returning her focus to the small device, she frowned. "One-channel transmitters are always a pain in the ass to fix," she muttered. "And hilariously easy to jam. Why do you guys keep using these?"

Neville shrugged. "Less expensive."

"That'll get you killed one of these days," Elicia chastised before twisting her screwdriver just a little bit. "...There. Should've changed the channel to that of the Liverpool Police's radios," she announced as she put the device back together and handed it back to Neville. "Try it."

Wondering why Elicia knew the police's transmission channel, Neville nonetheless put the device back in his ear and tapped it on. As she'd declared, the earpiece was soon full of routine and not-so-routine transmissions detailing the activities of the numerous police squads in Liverpool.

Neville gave Elicia a tight smile. "Nice work, Elicia," he praised before tapping it to transmit. "This is Military Mage Wenshi to any listening units. We are currently..." he gave them their estimated location outside Northampton, "and require immediate assistance. We have been ambushed and have sustained some minor casualties. Enemy presence is scattered, and ATHENA requires immediate extraction."

Neville flinched as his comm bead was suddenly assaulted by a myriad of surprised shouts and sceptical counter-questions. No surprise there; they'd have been unacceptably negligent to just take him at his word that he was a high-ranking man in the military currently protecting the future Queen.

Sighing, Neville quickly got to work at answering their questions as best he could.

* * *

_**Northampton, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, February 5th, 2012...**_

Fortunately, the captured terrorists weren't fanatics.

For the SIS, that meant having a much easier time of it gathering information regarding the attack on the future Queen. Xeno, himself presiding over many of the interrogations, had to hand it to the Death Eaters — now confirmed to be the terrorists' masters. They had planned out a cunning trap for the future Queen, knowing how valuable she was to the King. What disturbed him, however, was that they had not been told to capture her; merely to kill her.

In his temporary office in Northampton, pondering this information, Xeno rubbed his forehead to alleviate the rising headache he was feeling. Thanks to the terrorists' easy surrender, they had managed to locate and disable five of the explosive devices whose detonated copy had leveled Cheetham Hill. However, with each raid they'd found progressively more fanatical guardians, which worried him.

Due, in no small part, to the fact that this rising streak of fanaticism coincided with rising Death Eater death tolls from the genocide. That meant information was being leaked over the border to the terrorists without the Northern Sun's knowledge, which meant a significant security breach.

Which meant, in turn, that Harry would have his ass.

Well, not that Xeno hadn't considered retiring before. He was no spry young chicken anymore, but he also couldn't trust anyone to succeed him just yet. He had his eyes set on a few candidates, but they were still too young and too emotional to handle the delicate work of spymaster.

But returning to the issue at hand. The last terrorist cell had confessed to knowing of two more devices, bringing up the total of known devices up to 8, including the Manchester one. That still left 19 up in the air, so to speak.

Which brought up another, worrisome question — if the Death Eaters really were their masters, why, as Joshua had brought up once before, had they not simply detonated them in retaliation for the massacre of their people? After Harry had spoken to the mage delegation from Hogwarts, he'd informed Xeno that the bombs were no longer an issue, but apparently their guardians hadn't gotten the memo.

Moreover, while devastating, the remaining 19 bombs would not be enough to wipe out the new infrastructure of the Northern Sun's major cities, and what minor cities would be devastated would just have their populations relocated, just before the Northern Sun's armies launched an offensive to commit mass genocide against their foes.

So what the hell was going on? He couldn't make heads or tails of the way these terrorists and their handlers were working. From the way things looked, the Death Eaters called on the terrorists to assist them, but were seemingly unaware of the bombs. What kind of messed up logic was that?!

And of course, the theory that it was really Hogwarts that was behind the terrorist cells didn't hold up, either. If they were still guiding them, then why were known Death Eaters found fighting alongside the terrorists?

Xeno groaned as the headache intensified. There was some part of the puzzle he wasn't seeing; wasn't understanding. What was it? If the terrorists were taking their orders from the Death Eaters, then the Death Eaters should've known about the bombs, and those fanatics weren't so even tempered as to avoid using the devastating devices.

So why didn't they know about them? Why weren't they using them? Was someone holding that information away from them? Why would they?

Xeno growled gutturally as he wrote on his electronic pad — such wonderful inventions, these normals had — detailing his newest theory: that the terrorists — or rather, certain _informed_ elements of the terrorists cells — were still under Hogwarts control, and under such orders were fanning the flames of war between the Death Eaters and Northern Sun so that the genocide would _not_ stop.

It was ridiculous to even consider, yet Harry had already chastised him about disregarding information — ironic, considering how utterly "out there" his _Quibbler_ had been.

But if it was so, then Xeno had no idea what to make of this shadowy figure ordering the terrorists to align themselves with the Death Eaters. First of all, that person would've had to convince the terrorists it controlled to deliberately align themselves with racist xenophobes — something that seemed out of character for people who aligned themselves with Hogwarts. Secondly, how could said person benefit from the systematic genocide of the Death Eaters? While the superficial answer would be that it meant the age-old enemies of Hogwarts would be gone, it ignored the fact that the Northern Sun was even more powerful and vicious.

Xeno sighed and leaned back into his chair, closing his eyes. Maybe if he thought like Harry, something would come to him?

Bah, the King would chastise him for even trying to abandon his own mark of eccentric thinking. So, why would anyone push for the genocide of the Death Eaters? It wasn't material gains — no mage was profiting from this.

Wait.

Wait, wait wait.

Shooting to an upright position, Xeno almost smacked himself for having overlooked such a basic explanation. Whomever was guiding these kamikaze terrorists into goading the Northern Sun to continue its remorseless genocide was doing so in order to galvanize the mages!

This was a fucking power play!

Which meant that, having taken Harry's threats seriously, whoever their opponents were in Hogwarts had decided to discard the bombs and undertake a new avenue in order to solidify their position. What that position was, Xeno hadn't a freaking clue, but at least this explained the strange alliance between terrorists and Death Eaters. It also explained how these cells, who had until now maintained the strict security protocol of never knowing where the others were, had suddenly developed a case of "too much information."

More importantly, it meant the bombs would now be found in their totality. A strange sort of "we're sorry" present from their enemies up north.

Xeno sighed as he slumped in his chair, relieved.

_At last_, some good news for the King.

* * *

_**Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, February 6th, 2012...**_

The King was not happy.

Despite having been King less than two full months, he was already having trouble brewing within his own government.

How did he come about this information? Quite simple, really: Elicia told him.

Well, okay, maybe not that straightforward, but she was, in fact, the reason he knew about the situation. Hard not to realize such a thing when your fiancée appears for the first time at your new court (courtesy of a magically remodeled Liverpool City Hall, now renovated into the Royal Palace) demanding an audience.

Not that she needed to; Harry would've had his whole court thrown out if she'd just asked for a private moment with him.

Elicia's reason for being there, however, had nothing so romantic in mind.

"Elicia?" he'd asked, confused as to why his fiancée, whom he insisted remain in their home while she 'recovered' from the attack on her life, was now standing before him and his court.

"I ask for an audience with the King of the Northern Sun," she'd declared, ignoring his question and acting every bit the ordinary courtier. Harry was startled at this, of course, but waved her on. By his side, he failed to notice that Hughes seemed to form a knowing smirk as the man probably recognized what this was about.

Then Elicia surprised him further by getting to one knee and bowing her head. "Your Majesty, I come to ask you, humbly, that you revoke the extreme orders delivered unto the Northern forces currently stationed in Death Eater territories," she stated diplomatically. "I beg this of Your Majesty, not for myself, but for your own sake and that of your vision for this nation."

Naturally, Harry was almost instantly infuriated at hearing that the last person he wanted to know about the campaign up north was well aware of it. Turning to snap at Hughes, he was rewarded with a calm look directed at Elicia.

"Your Majesty, if I may?" Hughes asked calmly, momentarily tempering Harry's temper as the King nodded. "Lady Eisenheim, how, may I ask, did you come across such information? The operation up north is considered above top secret," he pointed out.

Elicia raised her head and met Hughes' calm stare with her own stubborn one. "I was informed of it by concerned elements both within the government and the military," she answered firmly. "And with good reason. Advisor Hughes, Your Majesty, the actions being performed up North are tantamount to genocide!"

"Ellie..." Harry spoke up, having heard the pained undertone in her voice. "Please understand, it was deemed necessary..."

"So I've heard," Elicia interrupted him, much to the outrage of those sycophants present. "But look at what it's done! Tens of thousands of body bags and revenge attacks on the government!" she pointed out. "And those are directed by survivors of the genocide itself! Who's to tell how the captured Death Eaters might act if they ever hear of the crimes being committed to their fellows?"

"And who would tell them, Lady Eisenheim? You?" Hughes questioned.

"Hughes..." Harry warned with a growl.

"Your Majesty, it is true that the campaign has caused lamentable side-effects, but its overall efficacy cannot be disputed," Hughes defended his position. "With the elimination of the Death Eaters, their operations against us have failed to live up to their old standards, and become more haphazard with every death. In fact, I suspect Lady Eisenheim's attempted assassination was foiled due to the fact that they are losing more and more leaders with every passing day!"

"Which would never have happened if it weren't for the fact that they've become desperate!" Elicia countered before looking back to Harry. "Your Majesty, there are some Death Eaters who _cannot_ surrender not because they believe, but because of social pressures and the mistaken belief that we will shoot any mage, surrendered or not! How is this acceptable to you?!"

Harry was quiet as the two debated. His initial reaction of anger had since faded as he heard Elicia passionately speak out against his actions up north — a fact that grieved him, since she'd looked at him with so much disappointment when she announced her intentions. However, it had been an action that he'd considered at length, and had agreed with Hughes was lamentably necessary to eradicate the threat that was the Death Eaters.

He knew others in the military and other branches of the government agreed — Xeno, Ragnok, and Josefina had supported the move, as had Speirs and much of the military brass. Curtis hadn't, however, nor had Sirius or his father and much of the civil government ministers. Only Joshua and his brother had remained neutral on the issue the day of the debate (his brother mostly due to being in another country at the time). His mother and sister were thankfully ignorant.

"Moreover, I have proof of my claims!" Elicia then stated, catching Harry's attention again.

"Oh?" he asked while sitting up, curious.

Elicia nodded, and quickly turned towards the doors. "Come in!"

The doors opened on command, it seemed, revealing two people standing just beyond its frame. Neville was easily recognizable in his blue Military Mage uniform, while his companion was not. A short, yet slender and battered-looking woman, she was looking about in the most paranoid manner Harry had ever seen. With a push from Neville, the young woman stumbled forward into the room, quickly hunching over and staying as far away as possible from the armed men and women.

When she reached Elicia, the young woman all but clung at her for protection, while Neville stood at Elicia's side.

"Who is this?" Harry asked, motioning towards the stranger.

Elicia turned to the young woman and smiled at her comfortingly. "It's alright, go ahead," she encouraged her. "Don't be afraid."

Easier said than done, it appeared, as the young woman flinched upon looking at Harry. "C-Cecilia D-Dorcaster, milords," she all but whimpered.

"What is this woman doing here?" Hughes asked, a feeling of rising dread permeating him.

"She's a Death Eater," Neville announced curtly, provoking shouts of outrage and every armed guard in the room to level their weapon at her. Cecilia gave a small scream of terror as she clung to Elicia even more, while the future Queen held her in a protective embrace.

Harry, already on his feet and ready to incinerate the Death Eater, stopped mid-snap at this sight. "Elicia! Get away from her!" he urged her, ready to set the woman aflame.

"Why?!" Elicia shot back. "What harm could she do to me? She's lost her wand!" she pointed out.

"She's a Death Eater!" he hissed back.

"Not by choice!" Elicia defended Cecilia. "Her parents made her join the Death Eaters! They urged her to keep fighting to the end! They convinced her we would kill her no matter what! Are you saying they were right?!"

Harry took a step back, as though slapped. Was Elicia, his beloved Elicia, really defending the piece of trash pathetically clinging to her? What was _wrong_ with her?

"They are the reason we had a Civil War! That the United Kingdom is gone!" Harry riposted. "They were given a chance to surrender and they threw it back at us!"

"Not everyone is brave enough to go against family, Harry!" she chastised him, for the first time using his name. "Not everyone can ignore those bonds! Should she be punished for only wanting to keep her family together?!"

"That was her choice!" Harry spat as he moved his hand every which way, trying to get a clear shot at Cecilia without hurting Elicia. Kind of a hard trick to do when one's main element was fire. "She made it, and she should live with its consequences!"

"Exactly! She should _live _with the consequences! Not die in a ditch!" Elicia argued. "Are we really so far gone as a civilization that we have to kill _everyone_ who opposes the way we think? Was that vow to protect free thought and justice a lie?!"

Harry grit his teeth. "They are not my citizens, nor are they trying to promote their agenda through peaceful means. They are a constant security threat!" he tried to make her understand. Why couldn't she just get what the problem was?!

"Some of them are!" Elicia shot back, glaring at a few guards who'd tried to pry Cecilia away. Another, more effective glare from Neville stopped them. "Most of them are victims of their loved ones' abuse of trust!"

Harry hesitated now. She was making a logical point...but he'd invested way too much in this operation to just make it stop.

Seeing the hesitation, Hughes stepped up. "We are still capturing Death Eaters who surrender on sight, Lady Eisenheim," he noted. "Yet, most prefer to resist, and doing so causes casualties on our side. We cannot take the risk of offering countless chances to surrender while endangering our forces!"

"Stop the genocide and I guarantee they will sort out the Death Eaters themselves!" Elicia argued.

Hughes shook his head sadly. "And our forces? The armies of the Northern Sun lay waste to the Death Eaters' territories in revenge for everything that was done to us. Should we really be taking away their rightful vengeance?"

"Our forces are more than sated, Advisor Hughes," Neville spoke up then, having opted to remain quiet thus far. His words served to startled Hughes and catch Harry's attention. A good thing, as the King's will was wavering. "Most are beyond sated and are now entering disgust. More than one commander has expressed his distaste for the campaign to me."

"And who might these men be?" Hughes asked, wondering if perhaps it was time to clean house.

"They are too numerous to name, and doing so would potentially endanger them," Neville replied honestly.

"Are you suggesting we would harm our own?" Hughes asked acidly.

Neville nodded. "Why not? The argument could be made that by dissenting on this operation, they are sympathizers," he pointed out. "And furthermore, these dissenting views were given to me in express confidence. It wouldn't be right to divulge their names. I can only say this: much of the in-the-know civilian administration and a decent amount of the military's enlisted and commissioned ranks object to this campaign."

Harry was silent. If what Neville was saying was true, then the dissenting views were spreading through the ranks — his main base of support up to now — which meant he stood to lose _a lot_. Okay, so maybe that sounded incredibly cold, but it was nonetheless true. Harry had banked his future on a shining military career and the support of the country's men-at-arms, and so the threat, however minuscule, of losing their support was a big deal indeed.

The fact that Elicia could barely stand to look at him just served to make this threat all the more emotionally painful.

Silence descended on the room as both parties looked to him for an answer. Sitting back down, Harry realized he had none. On the one hand, Hughes was right — they couldn't risk letting the Death Eaters recover from these systematic attacks; that was just inviting disaster in the long run. On the other hand, Elicia and Neville were both voicing opinions that seemed to have gained some traction even amongst his most loyal base of supporters: the military.

"I will think on this," he declared as he cupped his chin pensively. With his free arm, he swept the room. "Leave me."

There was a moment of hesitation before, one by one, his court began leaving the room, including his guards. The last to leave where, predictably, the major actors in this debacle — Neville, Elicia, and Hughes. Neville went first, after a silent death glare match between he and Hughes, then Hughes had gone, stopping only to give Elicia a brief once over and respectful nod.

Left alone, Elicia and Harry stared at each other for a moment before she gave a respectful bow and turned to leave.

"Ellie," he called to her. "Wait. Please."

Pausing, she turned to face him, her expression as expressive of her emotional turmoil as always. Silent, she waited for him to explain why he'd detained her. The silence bit at Harry more than he thought it would.

"...Have I really cocked things up so bad you would only talk to me as your ruler?" he asked, his dismay apparent.

Elicia looked away at the somewhat-true accusation. The truth was, it had been easier to deal with him on this matter as though he were merely her ruler, not the man she loved. To her heart, associating the man she loved with genocide was unthinkable and, more importantly, heartbreaking.

"Ellie, it was the _only way_," he pleaded with her, getting off his throne as he slowly moved towards her, afraid any sudden, brusque movements would scare her off. "They would've never stopped; they would've always remained a thorn in our side!"

"So you gave up and chose the easy way out?" she asked softly once he came closer to her, her voice full of disappointment. "The man I fell in love with wouldn't have given into his baser instincts, Harry," she said. "He would've looked for the best possible answer for the long run and short run, while regretting every life he took."

"You think I'm enjoying this?" he asked, shocked. Was that really the perception of his detractors on this issue?

"_I_ don't," Elicia conceded after a pregnant pause. "But it's spreading. People are watching you kill off an entire culture, however twisted and inhumane it is, without so much as a slowdown or humanitarian effort to convert the remaining Death Eaters. What else are people supposed to think?"

"That I'm doing this _for them!_" Harry shouted, unable to understand why she just couldn't _see_. "That I'm willing to pick the _cruelest_, _most damning_ choices for them so they don't have to!"

"And who asked you to pick _genocide_, Harry?!" she snapped back. "The people were fine with a war, but they never asked to exterminate an entire people!" she pointed out. "It doesn't matter how bitter we are over losing our country, or what we went through — there's _never_ any justification for such wholesale slaughter!" she emphasized her point by poking him roughly in the chest. "And the man who wrote letters to me _every day_ while he was in Spain, who confessed his horror at every life he took, who _cried his soul out_ on my shoulder when we reunited after the war..._he_ would've been _disgusted_ with this whole affair!"

Harry was speechless as she really tore into him, her chastisement pricking every one of his sore spots. "I did what was necessary for the future; for the people's future! For _our_ future!" he countered, though even to himself, it sounded a lot weaker than Ellie's righteous indignation.

"That's not a future I want to see," she told him firmly, crossing her hands over her chest. "A king is firm, but wise. He is vicious in battle, but merciful in victory. He does not take life for granted, but treasures all who live under his rule. A king rules, but only in service to his people," she recited from memory, confusing Harry.

"Who said that?" he asked, curious.

Ellie had a nostalgic smile on her face as she answered. "The last king," she said as she recalled the crippled man who, despite knowing his time on this earth was limited, had insisted on continuing his work as a stabilizing agent in the Northern regime, rather than wilt away in some closed-off room. "We spoke a few times before his death."

"I didn't know," Harry admitted.

"He was an incredible man," Elicia said as she drew closer to Harry and pulled him into a soft hug. Instinctively, his arms went around her as he pulled her close. "Do you remember why he picked you? Why he decided to legitimise you?"

"He said I could change things," Harry recalled clearly. "That the world was shrouded in suspicion and hatred, but that I could change things by being...different."

Elicia smiled as she closed her eyes, relishing the warmth of the hug. "And are you?" she asked.

Harry closed his eyes, his instinctual reply cut short before it even left his lips. Sighing, he knew exactly what the answer to that question was: no. He hadn't been any different from any past head of state. He'd conquered his way to the top, only to relish in the politician's motto: "in defeat, malice; in victory, revenge."

And revenge he'd exacted, with terrible fury. His agents slew any major threats to his power, and his armies were now devastating an entire area of Scotland, their sole mission to exterminate its populace. How did he possibly differ from any other ruler before him, with these as his achievements?

He sighed. "I've been a fool," he muttered as he tightened the hug, burying his face in Elicia's soft hair. "Forgive me, Ellie."

Elicia smiled. "Always, love," she answered. "I'll love you no matter who you become, or what you do. Never doubt that."

There was a moment of silence before he squeezed her. "Thank you."

Elicia then gave an unseen, conspiratorial smile. "Still, I'd rather our children don't have a war criminal as a father, if it's all the same to you."

Silence.

"Wait..._What?_"

* * *

"Your Majesty, I must protest!"

"My decision is final, Advisor Hughes," Harry stated firmly as he saw his longtime friend look at him as though he were nuts. "I'm not saying the decision we took initially was without merit, but we have since then effectively achieved our goals. It is no longer necessary to continue with the widespread extermination of the populace inhabiting Death Eater territories."

"There could still be terrorists hiding amongst them!" Hughes argued, gesticulating erratically as he tried to make sense of this sudden turn of events. "Sir, until we've confirmed the deaths of every Inner Circle member, as well as their leader, we should not let up on the campaign!"

"On the contrary, Hughes," Harry countered. "If we stop the campaign now, we can turn their people against them under threat of renewed hostilities, should they not be found within a timeframe of our choosing."

Hughes paused before narrowing his eyes. "Then...it is just a cessation of the campaign _for now_?"

"No," Harry stated. "It is a permanent stop to it. However, the populace doesn't need to know that, and we shall be keeping a sizeable force within Death Eater territories in order to maintain peace and order while we relocate the refugees."

"Sir, even so, we are inviting another potential terrorist attack of massive proportions," Hughes insisted. "These are _not_ our people, Your Majesty, and they have all been complicit in the deaths of thousands of _our_ people!"

Harry paused before nodding, briefly causing a few detractors in the court to suck in air as they feared Harry had once again changed his mind. He surprised them, however, by smiling at Hughes. "You are correct, Hughes, they are not. But they _will_ _be_, and when they do, it should be out of a personal choice for freedom and safety, not out of fear of extermination."

"Your Majesty..."

"Hughes, what will happen if we go to war in Europe?" Harry cut off his advisor. "Are we going to kill every population that opposes us? Exterminate them the way we are doing to the Death Eaters?"

"That's an unfair comparison, sire. The Death Eaters are extremists who advocate slavery and eugenics," Elicia pointed out from Harry's side, the roles oddly reversed as Hughes was the one begging the King to change his mind in front of the throne.

Harry conceded the point with a nod. "Fair enough. Still, the outside perception will equate the one with the other. We will be seen with fear and resistance will double rather than falter," Harry pointed out.

"Stopping now would achieve the same thing, sire; if they believe resisting will eventually gain them a free pass," Hughes pointed out reasonably. "With the Death Eaters, we could easily make an example of our enemies! Make them fear our forces such that their will to fight is broken before a shot is even fired! Think of the lives we'll save!"

"Think of the cost we'd incur," Harry riposted. "Hughes, the Northern Sun is to be a beacon of freedom, justice, and order. We cannot be that if the world fears every move we take; the people of the world must see change in the cycle of hatred and suspicion for the first time since the second world war ended."

"A noble sentiment, of course, sire, but as we've discussed, sometimes to do great things, you must pay terrible prices," Hughes reminded his liege. "I grant you that my advice is extreme, and that the operation up north is morally inhumane, but it is all mud we should be willing to shoulder if it means a brighter future for our descendants."

"We've already shouldered enough mud, Albert," Harry told his old friend and colleague as he got up and came down the steps of the dais. "How many did we bury in Spain? How many in the civil war?" He put his hands on Hughes' shoulders then and smiled. "Remember when we saved Josefina from those soldiers, my friend?"

Hughes nodded hesitantly. "Of course, Your Majesty," he answered honestly. "And I am proud to see the fine woman she's become in spite of her traumatic experience."

"Quite so," Harry agreed. "And yet it was an honest deed that saved her. No tricks, no mud; simple human kindness and a sense of justice. _That_ is the nation I want for all of us, Albert."

Hughes was silent for a while, knowing that Harry wanted to convince him to change his ways, despite a lifetime of having used his tricks to reach the top of the ladder. Touching, but futile. Still, he sighed as he recognized defeat in this one occasion.

Without any aggressive moves, he reached up and gently shrugged off Harry's hand from his left shoulder. "I will relay the order to Speirs to cease his operations and provide the false ultimatum," he stated neutrally before fixing Harry with a stare. "I just hope you remember, sire, that you owe your place on the throne not to idealism, but ruthless logic."

The smile Harry gave his friend for a brief moment chilled the man to his bones, dismissing the fears Hughes had about Harry getting soft. "Oh, Albert...I _know_."

* * *

_**Sector Four, Death Eater Territories, February 7th, 2012...**_

"He can't do this!" Swift raged as he overturned a table, shattering what fragile tableware had been upon it. "We were so close! How could he stop us when we're about to completely exterminate those...those...pieces of TRASH!" Another crash resounded as the cyclopean general threw a glass at a wall, shattering the drinkware into tiny pieces.

"Swift, please stop overreacting like a child," Hughes chided the man calmly as he drank from his salvaged wine glass. Still, he'd expected the zealous general to flip his lid once the news broke. Swift was _consumed_ by his own hatred towards Death Eaters due to his facial disfigurement and overall torture at their hands. "This is merely a setback."

"Setback? SETBACK?!" Swift demanded before he pointed to the scene outside, where Northern soldiers were marching by, already loading onto trucks as they got ready to depart the Death Eater territories. Most of the Sector Four forces, deemed the most at-risk in terms of potential volatility in the face of mages, were being pulled back to the Northern Sun's core lands. "We're being forced back to do...what? BABYSITTING DUTIES?!"

"The future Queen's won this round, Swift, no sense crying over spilt milk," Hughes stated mildly, not at all concerned with the turn of events now that he had time to go over the situation with a calm head.

"This round was the _only_ round to get at those filthy Death Eaters!" Swift pointed out, visibly struggling at keeping himself from throttling the Royal Advisor.

"Don't be silly," a female voice chided him then, causing the enraged officer to turn to look at one of the others at this small gathering. Josefina tilted her head and threw her hair over her shoulder. "Lady Elicia convinced Harry to change his mind because he loves her, and because she's actually right in this case."

Swift looked about ready to blow, and made a move towards Josefina, only stopped when she raised a hand and pointed at him with a glare.

"You were sloppy," she accused him bluntly. "Your _bloodlust_ is the only reason we're stopping the campaign!"

"_I'M THE REASON?!_" Swift yelled, outraged, as he made a move towards Josefina, stopped this time by Xeno's hand to his chest. "Move it, spook, before I break that arm!"

"Calm down," Xeno advised calmly. "You'll do yourself no favours by acting this way."

"She's right, though," Hughes opined before drinking the last of his wine. "We were sloppy. We made this about revenge, instead of covertly eliminating the Death Eaters the way we should have," he reasoned. "So naturally, the less ruthless among the Northern Sun's ranks objected to it."

"And how is any of that _my_ fault?!" Swift demanded.

"It's all our faults," Hughes replied diplomatically. "Your work here in Sector Four was unrivaled in its brutality, and Miss Nightshade over there," he motioned to Josefina who had the decency to at least look away. "has one of the highest body counts in the SIS while tracking down rogue mages within our lands, and Xeno over there has more than once sent agents to incite hatred amongst the troops towards the Death Eaters."

"And yourself?" Xeno asked mildly. "You were the architect of this whole campaign, Hughes; don't try to shy away from that."

Hughes shrugged. "I won't. I fully admit that I'd been envisioning this affair for quite some time now," he admitted easily as he contemplated the empty glass in hand. "And for a while, His Majesty was diligent in listening and enacting my advice, as I'd hoped. However, it is true that perhaps I grew overly arrogant and overconfident in my ability to keep his ear away from his fiancee's moral views."

"Then what now?" Josefina asked impatiently, wishing she could get back to work at hunting down traitors. "Roll over and die?"

Hughes snorted. "Blunt as always, my little Nightshade," he teased the young woman, feeling absolutely none of her otherwise quite intimidating glare. However much she glowered and snarked and barked, he still knew her as the traumatized girl he'd help save from rape at the hands of unruly British soldiers. "Of course we're not giving up. The King mentioned that the Northern Sun was to be a beacon of freedom, justice, and order to the world — a shining light to banish the darkness, so to speak," he paraphrased poetically — or what passed for poetic in his mind. "But he's forgetting something."

"What's that?" Swift asked after having having downed a full shot of tequila from his flask.

Hughes smiled as he gazed at his colleagues. The Head of the Special Intelligence Service, one of the most renowned generals of the Northern Army, the SIS' most lethal agent, and himself, one of the only two people in the Royal Court with unfettered access to the King's ear. "Just as the sun banishes darkness, it also casts shadows."

"Poetic," Swift noted sardonically. "But it doesn't help that we're just four people. I already know Wenshi and Humboldt hate this campaign, and Speirs rolled over the moment the King said to stop," Swift grumbled. "Curtis hated this from day one, and I know neither the King's uncle or father approved of the campaign. Face it, we're pretty much alone."

"For now," Hughes agreed. "but that isn't going to be forever. Time will reveal unto us those with similar mindsets; those who cannot abide half-measures or chains like 'morality' or 'ethics.' The King himself isn't pure-hearted. He's no idealist. His fiancee might've reminded him of his better half, but that darker side isn't gone; it's just waiting for a chance to resurface again," he reasoned with a smile as he remembered that bone-chilling smile the King had given him at court. "And when the chance comes, we'll be there, waiting to bring him back to the right path."

"And kill the rogue mages to the last, yeah?" Swift asked pointedly, glaring at the man he blamed for losing him his campaign of revenge. He grimaced as his injured eye socket began hurting again — the stress of losing his outlet greatly affecting his health.

Hughes smiled without worry. "Of course," he agreed before raising his empty glass in a faux-toast. "Let the future Queen and her faction shine the light of the Sun on our allies. We'll be the shadows that swallow our enemies whole."

One by one, his three colleagues raised their empty glasses as well.

* * *

_**Royal Palace, Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, February 14th, 2012...**_

"Happy Valentine's Day, love," Harry said with a smile as he finally uncovered Elicia's eyes.

His smile grew as he heard her delighted gasp at the sight of the newly inaugurated gardens behind the Royal Palace. Elicia, despite being a lab rat, had always loved their walks through the parks in Liverpool during their youth, claiming that while the lab was admittedly fun, she always loved being around nature's beauty. To that end, the moment he'd been crowned, Harry had commissioned a new garden be built behind his Royal Palace, even if it meant buying out — with his own money, naturally — the owners of nearby properties to tear the area down to build it.

Her reaction made it all worth it.

"It's beautiful, Harry!" she said effusively as she turned to hug him tight. "Thank you!"

"Anything to make you smile, love," he told her honestly as he enjoyed the warmth of her body pressed to him. "I figured it would make a good starting apology."

She looked up. "For what?" she asked, curious, before a flash of grief passed through her eyes. "For...the thing up north?" she asked tentatively.

He nodded wordlessly.

She looked back down then, pressing her head into his chest. "Harry..." she started, not wanting to make eye contact for this. "I won't lie, it hurt hearing that you ordered such a thing. It hurt knowing you were deliberately complicit in it. And I know Hughes believes what they did was for the greater good of the Northern Sun, but there has to be a line somewhere."

"I know," Harry conceded with a sigh as he stroked her hair. "And I'm thankful I have you by my side to remind me of it," he told her with a smile.

Elicia blushed but rose to the occasion by giving him a sly smile. "_Well_... I _was_ always the prettier _and_ smarter of the two of us!"

Harry rose an eyebrow. "As _I_ recall, you were consistently in second place in every academic test we took, while I was first, missy," he said with a mirthful grin.

"You kept distracting me!" she reminded him pointedly. "You _know_ I could never handle those puppy-dog eyes!"

"More fool you, then," he grinned.

She lightly whacked him in the arm. "Berk."

As he laughed, it occurred to the newly crowned King that he'd missed this sort of interaction. He'd always been so focused in fighting every new war that popped up on his radar — which tended to be quite a few — that he'd forgotten how nice it was to just relax with his loved ones.

Especially now that he knew he would soon have his first child.

"So, what do we name him?" he asked her, knowing she'd pick up on his topic.

She gave a teasing smile. "What makes you think it's a boy?" she asked archly.

Harry chuckled. "No reason; flipped a coin in my head," he answered with a grin. "So?"

Elicia smiled warmly as she pulled back from their hug and placed her hands on her still-flat stomach. "I was thinking James Alexander if it's a boy," she told him. "or Katerina Lily if it's a girl."

Harry smiled, knowing his parents, and hers, would be thrilled to hear that she'd wanted to give their grandchild their names. "That sounds wonderful," he opined, smiling softly as she grinned at him, delighted by his approval — they'd both heard of other couples having drawn out arguments about this sort of thing.

"Of course, we'll have to get the wedding over with before the baby starts showing," Elicia reminded him. "Don't want the gossips going around about how we're such 'loose' and 'immoral' people, right?" she noted with a grin.

Harry shrugged. "I could just have them shot," he suggested playfully. She smacked him in the arm playfully.

"Harry James Potter!" she chided him without any bite. "You will not!

"Fine, fine!" he acceded as he raised his hands in mock-surrender. Seeing her giggle at his antics, he took the opportunity to quickly sweep her off her feet and carry her in a bridal hold. Predictably, she squealed as the move took her by surprise, but quickly settled and smiled up at him in mock exasperation.

"You're such a drama queen," he told her with a grin. Again, she smacked him lightly on the arm.

"You're the one who picked me up without warning!" she chided him with a smile. "Put me down!"

"Don't wanna," he stuck his tongue out playfully. "You're mine."

She smiled softly. "And you're mine."

"Forever, love. Forever."

The two leaned in for a kiss, their love for each other kindled to their highest point, when an embarrassed cough interrupted them. Both of their heads snapped towards the source of the intruding sound with glares that could've melted the polar ice caps.

"WHAT?!" they both snapped.

The young woman who'd intruded, the former Death Eater-turned-Lady-in-Waiting Cecilia Dorcaster, cringed. "M-My apologies, Your Majesty, milady," she quickly apologized to the man who'd nearly killed her and her entire culture off and to her saviour and patron. "P-Prime Minister White is here to see you, sire."

Harry sighed as he looked skyward, wishing Sirius would just take the day the fuck _off_. Couldn't a guy be with his girl in peace anymore?! "Fine," he grumbled as he gently put Elicia back down, her own expression showing her annoyance at being interrupted quite clearly. "You should see to the last details of the wedding anyway, I guess."

Elicia sighed. "Yeah, I guess," she conceded, before leaning up on her toes to give him an encouraging peck. "Patience, love. At least you don't have to go serve on any frontlines anymore."

While he knew she meant that as something good, Harry had to try his best to hide his disappointment at the remark. He'd have much rather _been_ on the front lines than dealing with the budding bureaucracy and insane paperwork that ruling brought with it. Privately, he wondered if even Frederick the Great had been forced to deal with this sort of thing. "Right," he agreed with a forced smile. "See you tonight, love."

With that, he left the way Cecilia had come, leaving the future Queen with her new Lady in Waiting. "I-If it pleases you, milady, I could have the wedding organizer called," Cecilia offered.

Elicia was silent as she turned to look at the gardens her wonderful fiance had built for her. "No, not yet," she said eventually. "Please call General Wenshi and have him meet me here as soon as possible, please."

Cecilia fidgeted a bit before bowing nervously, still unused to doing so after having spent quite some time being the one bowed to. It had made her uncomfortable then, sure, but some part of her still felt uneasy at having to bow to someone her parents had deemed "inferior."

Still, she was humbled by the compassion her new mistress had shown her. Elicia could've very well just used her as an example for her case and then leaving her to live out her miserable existence amongst the other refugees, but instead offered her a place within her household. Admittedly, she confused the hell out of the witch due to the rather excessive amount of experiments she concurrently managed and participated in — worse still, the amount of manual labour and grime and other unpronounceable liquids and solutions that stained her clothes horrified the former Death Eater, who'd been raised to act as a prim, elegant young lady to whom manual labour was just something other, poorer people did.

Yet she had to admit feeling some envy towards the future Queen. While what Elicia did was quite dirty and intellectually inscrutable to her, the curly-haired blonde always looked to be having the time of her life, regardless of success or failure. In the latter instances, she'd seen Elicia simply shrug off the results and encourage her disappointed team to find ways around any obstacles. Yet, Cecilia herself could not think of a point in her life when she was anywhere near as happy doing things as Elicia clearly was.

All this, she witnessed in the few days since she'd entered the Lady's service.

Rising from her pensive bow, Cecilia entered the Palace once more, knowing full well the guards and Military Mages within were scrutinizing her every move — one of the latter had even gone as far as warn her that a single perceived sign of treason would see her in a bodybag in seconds — and went for the nearest phone, quickly recalling the number of the man who'd first dragged her before the future Queen.

She waited two seconds before the connection was picked up on the other side — what an ingenious invention, these Muggles had made! — and a gruff voice answered.

"_Yes?_"

"General Wenshi?" she asked as calmly as she could, her memories of the general being generally unpleasant.

"_Speaking._"

"A message from Lady Eisenheim; you are requested to come meet her at the palace as soon as possible."

There was a pause. For a moment, she thought the man might reject the invitation. Then he replied.

"_I'll be there shortly._"

* * *

"I think you know why I called you, General," Elicia said with a smile as she sat on the porch looking over the new gardens.

Neville nodded curtly. "Hughes," there was no question in his voice.

Elicia nodded calmly, smiling at Cecilia as the young woman brought out a tray with two cups and a pitcher of water. "Quite so," she confirmed. "Thank you, Cecilia. Water, General?"

Neville shook his head, watching the ex-Death Eater carefully as she poured Elicia her water. "No thank you, milady."

"You should keep hydrated, General, lest you fall ill," Elicia noted calmly before returning to the salient topic. "Hughes agreed to the King's orders, albeit reluctantly. And, as I've been informed by those sources you introduced me to within Harry's armies, those troops and officers within his faction have so far complied with the edict."

"Yet...?"

"Yet I've seen that sort of darkness in my future husband before," Elicia said neutrally. "If Hughes is anything like him, it won't just go away. He won't just stop thinking of people as statistics rather than actual living, sentient beings. He's not so proud as to refuse to accept defeat, for which I admire him, but he _is_ proud enough to see to it that he _will _plan another attempt at influencing Harry, and this time he will do so much more carefully."

"Do you want me to arrange an accident?" Neville asked bluntly, not wanting to mince words on this sort of thing.

Elicia had a look of genuine shock on her face. "Of course not! While I may disagree with Hughes, he is still an invaluable aide to Harry, and Harry counts the man as one of his closest friends!" she said, horrified that Neville had even suggested such a course. "His ideas might be repellent to me on a moral level, but I'm not so arrogant as to think our faction holds all the answers. Sometimes, much as I hate to think it, brutal force is the best solution to a problem."

"Like the Gordian knot," Neville summed up.

Elicia gave him a respecting glance and smile. "Reading up on your history, Wenshi?"

Neville shrugged. "After the disaster up north, I figured I should expand my education."

"A wise move, but you are essentially correct," Elicia digressed. "Hughes is an invaluable source of information and wisdom in matters of war, but knows too little about proper governance. Similarly, those who supported our cause before the King are mostly bureaucrats, politicians, and administrators — in short, governors without an inch of martial experience. We must thus lobby for influence with the King in matters where we are dominant, and allow Hughes to influence in matters he dominates, while excluding him from those he does not."

"It is unlikely he will feel the same way," Neville pointed out. "For that matter, neither will many on our side."

"And that is why I called you here, General," Elicia stated calmly as she took a final sip from her cup and handed it back to the silent Cecilia, who was standing to one side. There was absolutely no worry from either Neville or Elicia that she would blab — Elicia trusted her, and Neville knew they'd forced upon her an Unbreakable Vow never to betray Elicia or the Northern Sun. "Unlike the others, you are open to unorthodoxy. You do not dig in your heels on matters of politics, but realize its inherent malleability."

"Surely the Prime Minister would be a welcome addition to this plan of yours," Neville stated, not really caring one way or another. He had a feeling that Elicia had lost much respect for the man after seeing how he'd bowed so easily to Harry's commands.

He was right. "I love Sirius like family, but he is too easily bent to his nephew's views," she opined, looking a little disheartened by that knowledge. "No, I'm confiding in you, Wenshi, because _you _are able to revolt, if necessary. That is the most invaluable trait a king can ask of a vassal. It's easy to just agree with your liege lord to curry favour, but it takes real courage to stand up to the ones you trust and admire and say no to them."

Neville shrugged, neither confirming nor denying anything she said. "If I help, I would only be useful within military venues. That is where I thrive, and where my contacts are. You would be on your own within the political sphere."

Elicia smiled as she shook her head. "Not alone. Our allies will still help, and I'm sure we'll find reliable ones amongst them; ones we can trust to carry out this vision of ours while I work in the labs and you fight on the battlefields."

Neville was silent for a moment. To Elicia, the man's constant frown seemed permanently etched on his visage, which was a shame, considering that the few times she'd seen him smile, she'd thought of him as a handsome man — not as handsome as Harry, in her opinion of course, but still quite dashing.

Eventually, however, Neville broke his silence by taking a knee before her and placing a closed fist upon his breast. "Milady, I will serve with pleasure," he told her solemnly. "You can count on me on all things that are made to further our vision for the Northern Sun."

Elicia smiled as she listened to his vow. She wasn't about to lie to herself — it felt good knowing that she had someone she could implicitly trust. While she adored her future mother and sister-in-law, and trusted William to do the pragmatic thing, she also knew that the Potter family was airtight in its bonds. Even James, her future father-in-law, had caved to his son's desire for a campaign of genocide, despite being an inherently moral and ethical man.

Neville, however, had already proven himself free of dogmatic indoctrination. He was an able and courageous warrior, had nobility of spirit, and truly believed in the vision of the Northern Sun as a beacon of civilization, progress, justice, and freedom. More importantly, he wasn't easily manipulated anymore. Between the unjust arrest that had led to his recruitment into Harry's camp and the fiasco in the Death Eater territories, Neville had grown a cynical streak that would prove quite useful when evaluating information.

"I know I can," Elicia reassured him as she motioned for him to stand up, soon following suit. "Unfortunately, however, we must end our conversation here. I'm afraid I have final wedding preparations to see to," she explained.

Neville bowed his head and once again put his fist upon his breast. "I understand, milady. I'll see myself out." Once she nodded, there was a brief pop before Neville was out of sight, having Apparated away.

Left to her lady-in-waiting, Elicia smiled at the younger woman. "Now then, let's see to that wedding cake, shall we?"

* * *

_**King's Quarters, Royal Palace, Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun...**_

"You seem troubled, Astoria," Harry remarked idly as he unclasped his official cloak and had a few manservants take it off.

The head of his personal detail of bodyguards flushed as she bowed her head apologetically. "My apologies, Your Majesty, I did not mean to worry you," she apologized profusely, her long, blonde hair hiding her expression.

Harry waved off the apology as the last of his official accoutrement was taken off him, including his crown — which, despite its impressive design, nonetheless weighed a goddamn _ton_. "Nonsense," he stated dismissively as he turned, left in his much more casual royal robes — inspired in design, partly, by the robes of the Popes of old. Ideal for maintaining a regal look, without having to slave itself to fashion. "If the head of my bodyguards is worried about something other than my safety, then I want to know about it, so we can solve it as quickly as possible."

"You are too kind, Majesty," Astoria said as she raised her head. She paused for a moment, collecting her thoughts, before expressing what was troubling her. "Sire, those meetings with Advisor Hughes and Lady Elicia..."

"Yes?" Harry asked idly as he went for the drinks tray and poured himself a cup of wine.

"I'm sure Your Majesty noticed, but both seemed to have believed, in their respective moments, that they had won significant influence over you," she pointed out, her hands tightening into fists as indignant irritation rose in her. While the Lady Elicia would soon become Queen, she couldn't believe the gall either of these people had to try and sway the King as though he were some indecisive puppet!

"We know," Harry stated simply and without worry before drinking from his cup. He let the wine splash within his mouth for a moment, savouring the vintage, before swallowing and nodding at his cup. "A fine wine. We'll have to find more of this for celebrations."

Astoria was silent as the King went on his tangent, already far too used to it to make a vocal note of it. In time, as she knew, he digressed back to her point.

"Courts are always full of intrigue, Astoria," Harry told her simply as he turned to regard her fully. In his crimson robes, lined with golden thread, Astoria thought of him as the most handsome man in the Northern Sun. His gaze, however, showed at the moment no kindness, no warmth. They were cold, calculating. They were the eyes of a man who'd butchered and manipulated his way into power. The eyes of her King. "Fortunately for the Kingdom, both truly believe in working towards the greater good of it, albeit in different ways. Had they been replaced by opportunists, I would've had them shot."

"Then Your Majesty already knew his course of action when Lady Elicia presented her protest?" Astoria asked carefully, wondering just how farsighted the King was. To her surprise, Harry shook his head.

"No, of course not," Harry stated simply. "Ellie presented a good case, yet up to that point, we believed wholeheartedly in Advisor Hughes' solution to the Death Eaters. We are a King, not a God. We make decisions based on the facts at hand at that specific moment, but must be willing to shift our course of action once new facts come into play. While Hughes was right at first, Ellie was right to request we stop the plan once it became evident that the solution would no longer work."

"But the Death Eaters are all but gone!" Astoria protested, knowing she was crossing a dangerous line by raising her voice to her King.

Harry smiled grimly. "Most of it, yes. It is fact, indeed, that its organization is all but ruins. It is effectively no longer a functional group. Yet its most important members have escaped our grasp — its leader, Voldemort, is nowhere to be seen. Nor have the Malfoy patriarch or matriarch been found. A couple more of its high rankers still remain at large. But burning the rest of the Death Eater Territories' population wouldn't have brought about their capture — in fact, they would likely have reinforced the beliefs of the survivors that we must be stopped at any cost, even if that means housing these renegades. Wherever these rogues are, they remain consciously hidden, and as we both know, mages can be very adept at concealing themselves when they want to."

Astoria gave a conceding nod. "Yes, Majesty. Forgive me for my impudence," she apologized.

Harry again waved away her apology. "No need. Just as Wenshi has proven, a useful mind is an independent one. I don't need yes-men around me, Astoria, and much less as head of my bodyguards. Continue thinking, questioning, and asking; you will make yourself and the Kingdom stronger in that way."

Astoria nodded firmly, placing a fist upon her chest. "Yes, sire!"

* * *

_**Manchester, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, February 17th, 2012...**_

"It's starting to happen," William announced as he entered Joshua's offices, not even eliciting a look up from the man's work.

"It's nice to see you too, William," Joshua greeted the man sarcastically as he finished making corrections to a speech he was due to give on Northern foreign policy before Parliament, courtesy of one of his writers. Finally looking up, he gave the King's brother an impatient stare. "What's started?"

"French militarization."

"You might as well call the sky blue, William," Joshua noted wryly.

"Technically it's not, and that's not my point," William stated calmly before sitting down before Joshua's rather intricate mahogany desk. It always baffled the younger Potter sibling as to why people wasted so much money on such items — any desk should do, right? "The French have begun gearing up their military for what seems to be active military operations."

"That's rather sooner than we thought," Joshua noted worriedly. "Did Wolfsbane fail to put a wrench in their plans to move against us?"

"On the contrary," William said with a neutral smile. "Wolfsbane performed admirably. The good news, as I was about to say, is that while the French are beginning to gear up for war, it's not aimed at us, presently."

Joshua leaned forward, interest finally lighting up his eyes. "Oh? Do tell," he egged on his younger companion.

William reached down to his briefcase and put it on his lap, opening it in one smooth move, and pulled out a manila folder obviously full of intelligence reports, judging by the amount of clipped on documentation visible. "Wolfsbane has reported that his cell was able to convince the French government that the string of mage smugglers they'd caught had operated with unofficial German sanction," William explained as he leafed through the folder's contents. "Obviously, the French were pissed off at the news and, while we still remain at the top of their hit list, they relish any opportunity to bring the Germans down to size, especially if they feel the same have interfered in internal politics."

"Naturally," Joshua agreed, knowing well of the Franco-German feud that dated back to the first World War. "So it's a punishment expedition," he summed up.

"Of sorts," William agreed cautiously. "Wolfsbane's contacts in the French government have leaked to him that the French government just wants to make an example of the Germans, but not as simple as merely wiping out their army or humiliating them with the capture of their capital. They're likely to push for territorial claims."

Joshua raised an eyebrow. "That's quite...radical, even for the French," he noted sceptically. "How reliable is this information?"

"According to Wolfsbane, very."

"Then it appears the French have begun deluding themselves into thinking they are the undisputed masters of the continent," Joshua said before sighing and rubbing his forehead. "Idiots."

"It's a natural progression from the chain of events happening around us," William pointed out. "The Yanks have been quieter than the grave since their mage woes erupted, and as such there's no one to put the French back in their place without use of force. To be honest, I'm more surprised it took them this long."

Joshua nodded tiredly, thinking of the innumerable amount of new corrections he'd have to make to his speech now. Even if the news of the French gearing up didn't hit continental media just yet, Parliament would question him later on as to why the government was unprepared for such a situation if he didn't make provisions for such instances now.

"There's more," William added, making Joshua roll his eyes. The aristocrat really wished Europe would calm the fuck down for once!

"What?" Joshua asked, resigned to hearing more troubling news.

"The Spanish," the younger Potter announced. "They've agreed to come to the table for negotiations regarding your proposal."

Joshua perked up, feeling part of the weight on his shoulders lift. "Oh?" he asked, interested. "So that old bastard finally agreed to bend to the inevitable?"

"I wouldn't call it that," William opined with a frown. Joshua was dangerously close to counting his chicks before they hatched. "Rather, they seem to have realized that, with the crowning of a mage king, particularly the one their entire country has learned to fear after what he did during the war, that it would be in their best interests to negotiate now on fair terms than later under harsher ones."

"Smart, for a senile old goat," Joshua sneered. "He kept rebuffing everything I offered for months!"

"Months ago, we didn't have their version of the living Apocalypse sitting on the throne," William pointed out. "Either way, as reluctant as they appeared to be, they _are_ willing to play ball now."

Joshua nodded, pleased with the news. If he could accomplish with the Spanish what he had in mind, the Northern Sun's political weight in Europe would double, if not triple! Then, even the French would have to hesitate before lifting a gun at them.

"So, what do you think about our risk of war against the French now?" he asked, curious to see if the younger man's answer had changed from his previous estimate.

William was silent for a while, crunching the numbers, so to speak, in his mind. With the French on the warpath, but not against them, the Northern Sun had bought itself quite a bit of time, particularly since he knew the Germans would never take another French invasion lying down. However, depending on the French military's ability to take down the German forces — a conclusion he felt was all but inevitable, however skilled the German armed forces were — the Northern Sun could have earned a respite as short as a single day, or as long as a decade.

"It's...hard to tell," William admitted. "The variables are still too unclear to give an appropriate timeline for the war between the Northern Sun and the French," he explained. "We'll know once the French begin their war with Germany, and we'll know for _sure_ when it ends.."

"And when's that going to be?" asked Joshua.

William shrugged. "From Wolfsbane's reports, I imagine around April or May. Time enough to have their armies start fighting with as little meteorological impediments as possible."

Joshua smiled as he leaned back. Even if the French won, their losses, which _would_ happen, would hopefully cripple the French long enough to allow the Northern Sun to ready itself as much as possible for the impending war with the European superpower _du jour_. Speirs and Curtis, he knew, were already recruiting like crazy to make up for the numbers lost during the Civil War and the disastrous opening actions of the Anglo-Death Eater War. Add up the casualties of the Anglo-Spanish War as well, and those were _a lot_ of dead servicemen to make up for. Even then, both generals knew that bringing the Northern forces to pre-war levels wasn't enough — even at the peak of British power post-World War II, they had been lagging behind the French. Thus, whatever army they recruited not only had to be bigger than before, it had to match the French practically gun for gun (which Joshua doubted would happen).

"There _is_ a snag, however," William then added, snatching Joshua out of his daydreaming.

"Another one?"

William nodded. "I'm sure you've heard by now, but a decent amount of the inner circle of the Death Eaters went missing during this last war, and their whereabouts remain unknown."

"So?"

William shrugged. "Call me paranoid, but I believe that lack of body means reasonable doubt of survival. In that event, it means some of our greatest foes are still on the run, and any war we decide to fight with the continent may be hindered by domestic terrorism," William pointed out.

"Surely a matter for the military and police force to worry about?" Joshua suggested dismissively.

"Yes, except that if our enemies see us suffering from domestic terrorism, we may be viewed as weak," William noted. "And you've seen what my brother will do to prevent his being seen as weak."

Joshua grimaced in distaste. While not a vocal detractor or supporter, Joshua had nonetheless looked down upon the campaign up north, having seen it as an exercise in brutality and revenge; completely lacking in self-restraint and any sort of decency. On the other hand, it _had _broken the Death Eaters' entire infrastructure, rendering any remnants at best an impotent foe and at worst a minimal risk to the government.

"Quite," Warwick agreed, with a frown. "A right mess that was; bloody hard to hide it from foreign observers, and a damned chore to bribe those who did."

"Do the Spanish know?" William asked, curious. After all, it might affect their negotiations with their former Iberian foes.

Joshua shrugged. "They know _something_ happened up north, but not the details," Joshua informed his younger colleague. "They know it resulted in _a lot_ of deaths, but the full extent of the bloodbath has been a closely-guarded secret."

William nodded, pensive. What Joshua had done was par for the course in diplomacy, but was it wise? Today's cover-up was tomorrow's deal-breaker in politics; he'd read and studied up on so many alliances that broke up over some deeply buried secret that he wasn't sure it was the best way to go forward with this issue.

"Is that wise?" he asked, having decided to voice his concerns.

"How do you mean?"

"Bear with me on this," William urged the aristocrat before leaning in. "If we keep the massacre secret from our allies, it could be used at a later date to blindside them, perhaps when we need them the most," he pointed out. "This could very well trigger a much more massive diplomatic scandal than it would be if we just fessed up to it."

"Genocide is frowned upon regardless of when it's revealed, William," Joshua pointed out. "And as far as I know, there's no statute of limitations on mass murder."

"Perhaps not, but we have a better chance of mitigating the fallout now than we would later; especially if, as I said, we need their help urgently. Best case scenario, they dictate new terms favourable only to themselves. Worst case, they turn on us."

Joshua nodded slowly, seeing what William was getting at. "You're afraid of our allies switching sides when we take on the French."

"Of course," William confirmed. "It'll be bad enough having to fight the top European nation without having to add another country, or countries, to the mix."

"So what's our recommendation to your brother?" Joshua asked plainly as he folded his hands on his lap. "He'll be no doubt wanting to hear a timeline for our war with France."

"Bunker down, rebuild the country, and cultivate friendships with Spain and any other sidelined European nation who wants a shot at the French," William offered. "Before, we had two years to do all that, but now with this conflict with Germany, the French will no doubt be ready for a war with us only in about three years, maybe four if we're really lucky."

"And if people ask about the genocide, since you think we should be open about it to our allies?" asked Warwick.

William was silent for a moment. "Call it the result of counter-terrorist failsafes," he advised. "If they press, tell them the soldiers were forced to kill as a result of suspicious behaviour from those who didn't surrender upon request."

Joshua looked sceptical. "Will that work?"

"It's as good an explanation as any," William opined. "And it doesn't deny the massacre happened — it just spins it so we're the good guys."

"We _are_ the good guys."

"Not if the public hears we did it out of revenge," William pointed out.

Joshua sighed — he knew William was right. And the advice was good; it certainly meshed with his own thoughts on the matter. He was now convinced that the younger Potter male was the right choice for the post of Deputy Minister, though he had to admit that the young man made such a final decision tough, given that he didn't seem interested in anything other than field work.

"Very well," he conceded. "I'll give your brother that recommendation. It's a good one, and I think it'll be enough to get him to sit back down on the throne and leave the country out of any more wars for the time being."

William cracked a neutral smile. "One can only hope."

* * *

_**Post-AN:**_ So here's the thing; I've decided to push back the reference year provided in the prologue. As I was writing this chapter, I came to realize that giving Harry just two years to rebuild the country from the Anglo-Spanish War, a civil war, an initially disastrous war with the Death Eaters, and the Manchester Event was rather...well...insane. Even with magic, there's the question of lack of manpower, rebuilding infrastructure, and many, many more headaches any head of state would have to deal with in a post-war reconstruction period. As such, **the time skip** (if you think I'm going to chronicle every day/month of the reconstruction period, you're out of your minds) **will be pushed from two years to five**. Even saying that, I realize that I'm still pushing the envelope, as most countries would need decades to pull off what Harry will be doing, but for the sake of storytelling, let's just assume magic is really that awesome. As expected, the prologue will be changed to reflect this shift.

On a more positive note, I'm looking for native German, Italian, French, and Russian speakers (any other language from the European continent would also be awesome) to help me craft news broadcasts that will be highlighting several events happening during the time skip. Any help from you guys on this would be awesome.

Cheers,

Marquis Black


	22. Time Skip: Embers of War

_**AN: **So, two options: 1) Keep writing this mammoth chapter until ALL of the five years have gone by, or 2) post this first instalment so you all can stop spamming me with death threats. (Kidding on the death threat part :P )_

_Obviously, by the very fact that you're reading this, you now know I went with option 1. That said, I do also have another quandary. Two, actually._

_Quandary #1: The polls have spoken, and the people are...meh. While Option A has achieved the highest number of votes between the two, an even bigger majority has declared that neither flag is suitable. Well, that means either of two things: scrap 'em both, or ignore the Neither vote and go for Option A. So here's what I'll do: since so many of you object to Option A, I'll give it a week for third-party submissions before going with Option A._

_Quandary #2: Current translators - you've all been wonderful in your help! Honestly, just talking things out with you guys has expanded my horizons greatly. However, as great as you guys are, I need more newspieces to frame each segment. I don't blame any of you, let that be said, since I know real life can get in the way very often (also a reason for the lateness of this chapter). However, in order to speed things up, I would like to reiterate my call for more translators - specifically, I need **French**, **Belgian**,_ _**German**, **Italian**, and **Russian****.**_

_That said, enjoy the chapter!_

_-MB_

* * *

_**From the Liverpool Star, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, August 6th, 2012...**_

_**WAR!**_

_PARIS/BERLIN — Last night, at exactly 3:02 p.m., local time, the President of France, Jean-Edouárd Chévrier, officially announced before a televised press conference, the majority decision of the French National Assembly to declare war on the Federal Republic of Germany._

"_It is inconceivable," said President Chévrier in his justification for the war, "that any civilized soul in this world would shoulder the vast array of insults to our national honor or the myriad of covert incursions the Germans have performed against us without reacting appropriately."_

_Accordingly, the press officers in the room were then informed that an hour ago, just as the National Assembly finished its voting procedures, the full might of the French Republican Army was deployed towards the German border, with the first few incursions into German territory finding little resistance from the allegedly bewildered German defenders._

"_This tragic decision on part of the French National Assembly is unjustifiable!" the German Chancellor, Mrs. Amalia Lizke, announced in a press conference in Berlin few hours later. The Chancellor of the Federal Republic, however, gave this defiant statement soon after. "If the French wish for a fight, however, then they will get one! The citizenry of Germany know we are not at fault for this war, and we will not allow ourselves to be made scapegoats to justify French expansionism!"_

_Commentators on the situation have been quick to pounce on either side of the conflict, with French supporters calling the string of smuggling operations along the Franco-German border a 'German ploy,' while German supporters have been quick to denounce what they see as thinly-disguised expansionism and long-expired revanchism._

"_If the French have proof of German sabotage missions within France, why haven't they made it public?" one commentator, desiring to remain anonymous, told this reporter. "It smacks of lies, in my opinion."_

_Of course, the other side of the conflict has been just as fervent in their defence of France's alleged casus belli._

"_There's been no question, none at all, that many enemies of the state have suddenly disappeared from the authorities' radar, with many of them resurfacing within German borders. Do the Germans really expect the French government to believe that they had no idea so many rogue mages and terrorists were being smuggled into their country?" asked a French sympathizer, also wishing to remain anonymous. "Don't be absurd. They're lying murderer-sympathizers."_

_Regardless of the arguments on either side, however, hostilities have already broken out along the entire German border as the surprised German army nonetheless attempts to maintain its ground. Reports have already surfaced of heavy fighting centered mostly along the north, though expert analysts have indicated that a southern front is likely to follow._

_The big question on everyone's mind, however, is this: why hasn't the United States intervened? At this moment, the White House has declined to comment on the situation, stating that it will give a public statement at a later date, once all the pertinent information has been gathered and processed._

_Meanwhile, the German countryside is lit with the fires of war once more._

* * *

_**A ways from Shrewsbury, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, August 7th, 2012...**_

"Have you seen this?"

Harry looked away from the great scaffolding that marked where the newest and fifth Fuel Crystal Energy power plant would finally be unveiled in a week or so. Ever since they'd proven that the single facility off Netherley could power the three major cities of the Northern Territories and most of the outlying towns, the demand for the facilities had skyrocketed as electrical consumption quintupled following an enormous boost in confidence in the Northern economy.

Thus, the Shrewsbury facility, which would mark the fifth such installation, this one designed on a much more massive scale to effectively power most of western England. Ragnok, a major supporter of the scheme, had even pushed for the electrical output to remain within the scope of government control. To that end, the former British Electrical Authority had been revamped as the Northern Electric Board and was firmly kept separate from the other ministries.

The result of Elicia's grand scheme for mass electricity was magnificent: cheap, clean energy. The only thing better, she'd told Harry numerous times, would've been achieving nuclear fusion — which she dismissed as probably impossible to achieve within her lifetime, due in no small part to the fact that he steadfastly refused to lift the moratorium on nuclear fission research.

Either way, Joshua didn't seem to share Harry enthusiasm for the FCE project. Rather, he was holding out the previous day's newspaper to Harry; its front page plastered with the ugly bold letters newspapers only used when something game-changing happened.

Which a Franco-German war was.

"I did, yesterday," Harry confirmed. "In fact, you showed it to me — read it aloud, even. Have you been hanging on to that since then?"

Joshua glared at Harry. "Of course!" he rolled up the newspaper and smacked it on the railing nearby. "What are we going to do about this?" he demanded. "It's all fine and dandy if this fits into your plans, but the more we keep quiet about the war, the more people start to suspect we're up to something!"

"We're _always_ up to something."

"That's not the point!" Joshua snapped. "You should be in front of a camera, right now, telling people some absurd lie about how we're sorry this happened, or about how you wish the two sides would reconcile, or _something_!"

"Didn't I give you a statement to that effect?" Harry asked curiously as he remained unmoved for the most part.

"To be read by some _aide_ in front of a _teleprompter_?!" Joshua reminded him. "That's absurd! An insult to both France _and_ Germany! It'd be like we don't give a rat's ass about the situation!"

"To be fair...I really don't," Harry noted with a wry smile. "As long as it's long and bloody, it serves us well."

"Maybe, but it sure as hell matters to _others_ on the continent," Joshua pointed out. "The Benelux has begun stalling in our negotiations because they're unsure who they'll side with in this war. The Netherlands and Luxembourg are both very invested in German trade, but Belgium has a large francophone population," he reminded Harry, who he knew was listening, even if he wasn't looking at him. "If they unilaterally declare neutrality, they get invaded by either side. But if _we_ declared neutrality _and_ stated we'd protect _other_ neutral nations, then we'd have the Benelux right where we want them!"

Harry sighed as Joshua insisted the point. The truth was, having the Benelux on their side _would_ be beneficial, but not game-changing; not like having Spain on their side (which they already did). However, that being said, if the Benelux was attached to the Northern Sun, then that prevented either France or Germany from using the Dutch ports to resupply, and limited (albeit not severely) the deployment areas of the French and German armies in the conflict.

And, in the long run, it would mean a beachhead in northern Europe for when the time came.

Harry sighed again. "Fine, set it up," he told Joshua. "Better to have them around and not need them than needing them and not having them," he paraphrased the saying.

* * *

_**France, August 10, 2012...**_

_AFP (Paris) - Lors de sa conférence de presse, le président de la République a rappelé l'importance de l'engagement de tous les citoyens de la République dans le conflit qui l'oppose maintenant à l'Allemagne depuis deux mois : "Le front n'est pas que dans les plaines de l'Est. Il est dans les usines, dans les universités, sur les réseaux. La victoire est plus que jamais à portée de main, mais nous devons rester vigilants pour nos fils et nos filles qui se battent en ce moment-même. L'Ennemi le sait très bien, et ne se limite pas au front. Il peut être parmi nous, comme les évènements dans l'ancien Royaume-Uni l'ont tristement prouvé."_

_L'allusion au régime du nouveau monarque du Nord a immédiatement été reprise par les parlementaires de l'opposition, qui ont mis en cause la politique du gouvernement face à la situation que présentent les Mages français non enregistrés._

* * *

_**Paris, France, August 15th, 2012...**_

"_Madame_,"

Josefina smiled courteously as she accepted another glass of champagne from one of the waiters are the party she was attending in the President's honor, following some apparently rousing speech about the economy and war effort. Her date, some rich 25-year old brat who'd lived off daddy's money all his life, was currently mingling with a few older men, all of whom she recognized from her briefs as men of significant import to the French economy. No doubt he was deluding himself into thinking they gave a rat's ass about him or his ridiculous ideas.

"_Merci_," she thanked the waiter graciously in accent-less French before lightly touching him on the arm with a charming smile, halting his circuit. "_Pardonnez-moi, mais sauriez-vous où sont les toilettes?_"

She made a show of being somewhat embarrassed by the question, but kept her demure, charming smile just as expected of a lady of her alleged social stature.

The waiter, apparently having decided she was probably some floozy on the arm of some rich jerk — a remarkably quasi-accurate guess, if true — tried to hide his eye-roll before giving her short instructions on how to get there. Giving him a winning smile, she thanked him again before watching him set off to continue his route through the crowd of guests.

Looking about, she had to admit that the place was nice enough — one of the President's top contributor's villa, or some such. Marvellous architecture, extravagantly decorated patio, everything looking brand new...yes, this was _definitely_ some rich douchebag's home.

Which just made Josefina's job all the more difficult, regretfully, because just as these people lavished absurd amounts of money on their homes for purely superficial reasons, they also invested copious amounts of money into their security. Already, she'd made out twenty guards along the perimeter of the patio, with maybe five more dressed as guests. Try as they might, nothing really managed to hide that mildly conspicuous bulge that betrayed the presence of a semi-automatic handgun.

She, on the other hand, didn't have that problem. Already fully aware that her dress — slinky and low-cut, as she knew her date liked (man, was _he_ easy to manipulate!) — would hide very little that wasn't already attached to her own body, she'd made preparations weeks ago to make sure all her necessary equipment was already in the villa before tonight's festivities. Hidden, of course.

Finally deciding to make her move, Josefina practically slid her way across the patio floor towards the doors leading inside the villa, stopping only to smile and lightly flirt with a couple of guys along the way to preserve the impression of some airheaded socialite out for a night of fun. Undoubtedly, her antics would get back to her date, who would in turn (considering his psych profile) make a huge deal about being the one to have brought the "hottest piece of ass" in the party or some such ridiculous claim.

Once at the doors, all she had to do was smile at the guard there — a large, ex-army man who'd dumped his girlfriend not two weeks ago — and make herself as seemingly easy as possible to seduce as possible while still asking for the bathroom (no sense creating inconsistencies in her story, if people found her out before she got the job done). Admiring her toned body, the man was practically salivating as he watched her walk in, and Josefina smiled to herself as she wondered at the ease with which such men were swayed by the most ridiculous of things.

Striding elegantly down the path the waiter had told her, she quickly reached her destination and, still acting like some socialite about to fix her makeup, strode into the bathrooms, hoping no one was around.

Thankfully not, at this time. A lucky break, as in her experience most women her age or socialites liked going to the bathroom often to exchange tips or touch up their sugar daddy-attracting charms. Scoffing at the idea of such women, she quickly locked the door (thank god for private restrooms!) and quickly peeled off her press, leaving her in nothing but her panties (_you_ try wearing a bra fashionably in a strapless dress!). Quickly crouching down, she opened the drawers beneath the sink and reached to the back, smiling as she felt the fake partition's corners. Pulling it open, she felt her smile grow as she saw the black bag with her equipment she'd had smuggled in two weeks ago by one of her men.

Quickly bringing it out — she was on a schedule, after all — she took out her suit and quickly slipped it on before zipping up and putting on her gloves. After finishing gearing up, she checked her watch and gave a nod of approval as she noted this had all taken less than two minutes. Good. She had maybe...fifteen-twenty minutes before people really started wondering about her extended presence in the bathroom.

Looking up, she noted the vent screen she'd already scoped out as her entry and deftly reached up to it by standing on the toilet. Carefully unscrewing it from the ceiling, she pulled it off and, with the gymnastic skill she'd been honing all this time in the Northern Sun's service, pulled herself into the vent.

She frowned. It was a little tighter than she remembered reading about, but at least it wasn't impossible to navigate. One problem, though: that meant moving more slowly, or else people would _definitely_ hear movement in the vents.

As she crawled through the dusty vents, she grumbled to herself as she realized how dirty she'd be coming back out. Why couldn't she have just broken into the guy's private office through the damn door?! Oh right, because of the two ex-Special Forces guards outside and the $10,000.00 lock and alarm system the door was rigged with. Sure, she _might_ be able to crack the biometrics, but she didn't exactly have half an hour, and knocking out two ex-SpecOps wasn't exactly something you could do silently while traipsing about in a skintight suit that screamed "THIEF".

So, the ventilation shafts it was.

To her utter dislike, it took her five minutes to get to the appropriate vent screen, only to find that it was screwed as much as possible to the ceiling.

Okay, a problem. Not impossible to fix, but damned inconvenient anyway.

Grumbling all the while, she twisted and turned as she pulled out of her belt a particular device Xeno had foreseen she might need and placed it in the ridiculously small opening left between the ceiling and screen. Then, as he'd told her, she grabbed the screen's flaps and pressed a button on the device, almost jumping when it suddenly popped (thankfully not loudly) and separated the vent screen from the ceiling. Nifty.

Gracefully, she dropped down from the ceiling and hung there as she checked for a good landing spot. Seeing as how the man's desk was on the other side of the room, that meant the closest thing to her height was one of those decorative tables people put at the back and sides of rooms to take up space and awe guests about the wealth their owners had.

In other words, too fragile.

Sighing, she swung a little and let go, landing softly on the lavish carpet. Good thing her new shoes were more like slippers than high-heels.

Knowing her presence hadn't yet been detected — there'd be a whole lot more shouting if she'd been made — she strode over to the target's rich mahogany desk and sat in his equally lavish chair, shaking her head in wonderment as she did so. Looking beneath the desk, she reached behind the man's desktop computer and quickly pulled out the sound cables before turning the computer on, to avoid having any loud beeps or whatever that could give her away. Not for the first time, she wondered why most spies in movies seemed to forget to do that.

Softly humming a tune, she waited as the computer booted, then input the expected password they'd uncovered during the pre-op work, then quickly went to work in seeking out the information she'd been sent for. As expected, the target had a decent chunk of information regarding the planned French advances into Germany. The wily old bastard even had some of the government's contingency plans to invade the Benelux!

She grinned. Xeno was going to _kiss_ her for this. While Harry's announcement of the Northern Sun's neutrality had done much to push the Benelux into the Kingdom's arms, the three minor European nations had opted to take any deal-making slow, just in case the French called the Northern Sun's bluff. However, with these plans in hand, the Northern Sun would be not only able to convince the Benelux of the wisdom of coming to their side, but also be able to promise a sound plan for defending the Benelux if the French or Germans decided to screw them over.

Especially now that the Yanks had decided to stay out of the war, citing their unwillingness to side with either party given past histories of being allies with both. That was the official reason, naturally, with the unofficial reason being that they were already dealing with way too many warring states to their south to even _begin_ to imagine intervening in a full fledged European war.

Again.

Taking out her preset USB drive, she quickly copied the relevant computer data to her portable drive, but not before looking for any programs or failsafe that would trigger an alarm for doing so. Thankfully, the man hadn't thought that far ahead — and hey, he wasn't a military man either! — so the process went over quite well.

Within five minutes, she had all she needed, and quickly made her way back up into the vents, set the screen back in place with some special glue the wonder boys back home had come up with, and crawled back to the bathroom, where her dress, high-heels, and a whole evening of horrible dullness awaited.

She sighed as she put the finishing touches on her makeup. After the fun stuff, the dull stuff.

Why couldn't she have just stayed with the black ops team?

* * *

_**France, October 6, 2012...**_

"_Les opérations aériennes au-dessus de Stuttgart se sont à nouveau terminée par une victoire de l'Armée de l'Air. La supériorité logistique et tactique de nos appareils et de nos pilotes a une fois de plus fait la différence contre l'aviation ennemie, assurant le maintien de la supériorité aérienne française au-dessus de la ville assiégée. Les poches de résistances sont maintenant soumises à un feu nourri que seule la volonté d'épargner les monuments historiques allemands préserve d'un anéantissement total._

_L'Armée de l'Air recrute! Première sur le champ de bataille, et dernière à rester en vol. Ingénieurs, médecins, mécaniciens, cuisiniers... Vous pouvez tous prendre part à la victoire!"_

* * *

_**Dunkirk, France, October 6, 2012...**_

"Turn that shite off, for goodness' sake!"

The patriotic music coming from the radio after the painfully obvious propaganda suddenly stopped with a click. The five commandos holed up in the dingy loft sighed in relief as all noise in the area turned purely enviromental.

"Anything on the line, Wire?" the leader of the group, a man wearing sergeant's stripes, asked his radioman.

"None, sarge."

"Keep on it," the sergeant advised. "Convoy should be here in a few minutes."

"Speak of the devil, sarge," one of the other men in his group spoke up then, huddled by the edge of one of the sole windows the bleak floor-level apartment had. "Three flashes, east side," he reported. "Looks like a strobe."

"Could be them," one of the men by the door agreed.

"Send the return signal and try to raise them on the line, Wire," the sergeant ordered. No reason to take any risks, after all. He watched as the man by the window brought up his flashlight and clicked it on and off five times.

"Copperhead, this is Archangel, do you copy?" the radioman called them up. Really, any one of the troopers could've done it, but having a dedicated signals man was never a bad idea.

A moment of silence passed. "Think it's the frogs, sir?" one of the troopers asked.

The sergeant's complexion grew grim. "Could be. Croft, check if our backdoor out of here is still open."

"Sir," came the clipped reply, followed by soft footsteps.

"Copperhead, this is Archangel, do you read?" the radioman tried again. "Nothing still, sir."

"Weapons ready, lads," the sergeant advised. If it really was the French authorities, then it was likely counter-intelligence and commandos, meaning they had a hard fight on their hands.

"Backdoor's still open. Not a soul in sight," Croft reported as she carefully reentered the room and took position behind a table. "If this is a French counter-op, it's a damned good one."

"Can't leave anything to chance," the sergeant reminded his team. "Mirror, got eyes on the signaller?"

"Just shadows, sarge," the lookout said.

The sergeant grunted before tapping his ear bead. "Hawk, how's the view?"

"_Clear as Caribbean water, sarge,_" the sniper lookout at the top of the building replied. "_I got eyes on location sigma, but can't get visual on the actual person doing it._"

"Copy that," the sergeant replied promptly. "Give it five more minutes. If they don't start coming here like agreed, we bug the fuck out, understood?"

A chorus of assents answered him.

"And remember, no prisoners. If we are fired upon, we kill everyone who can ID us. No one's to know we're here."

There was much less enthusiasm in their assent in this time, but the sergeant knew they'd do their duty if it came to it. The Northern Sun, while ostensibly neutral in the conflict between Germany and France, had nonetheless begun infiltrating the French Republic to aid in the smuggling out of mage and normal dissidents. While they'd given the Benelux's emissaries the credit for allowing them to 'finally' do so, the Northern military had long ago drawn up similar plans using local French harbors. Still, it sure as hell beat having to cram into a small ship, dodging naval patrols. This way, all they had to do was cross the border into Belgium and the dissidents were home free.

Of course, this all banked on the idea that the Northern presence in France was _not_ discovered.

"_Movement at location sigma._"

Hawk's report snapped the sergeant out of his reverie, just as the rest of his team raised their weapons, ready to fire.

"Mirror, got a visual?"

"Aye, sir. One...two...about fifteen coming our way, single file," the special ops commando reported. "Don't move like army or SpecOps, though."

"Civvies?"

"If they're coppers, they're doing a bang up job of being obvious as hell," Mirror replied sardonically. "ETA 30 seconds."

"Hawk?"

"_Here, sarge. Don't look like police, and maybe only two of them are armed. I think it's the targets we've been waiting for._"

"Got it," the sergeant confirmed with a nod to himself. "Ghost, Joker, on the door," he ordered. "Rest of you, form up for optimal covering fire lanes."

As the team took appropriate positions, the sergeant stood from his crouching spot and kept his gun pointed down as he waited for the expected knock. A few seconds later, he got his wish when three knocks, followed by two short knocks, then five knocks resounded on the door.

That was the signal.

He nodded to Joker. "Open it."

Without a word, the taciturn commando did as ordered and the sergeant got his first look at his contact within the French pro-mage resistance.

And, he had to admit, he was stunned.

Quite possibly the most lovely woman he'd ever seen was standing at the door, golden curls loose over her shoulders, her clothes a little ragged but otherwise still very feminine and _very_ beautiful.

Without a doubt, this was her.

"Pucelle?" the sergeant gruffly asked, hoping his rough understanding of French didn't mess up the pronunciation.

The woman nodded silently, her grave expression marring her otherwise otherworldly beauty.

"Sergeant Price, Northern Rangers," the sergeant introduced himself with an extended hand, which she apparently reluctantly took and shook. "How many with you?"

"Ten to leave this country, five to return with me," she spoke with only the slightest French accent, Price noted. "Mostly children."

Price nodded. "Very well then. Let's get to it."

* * *

_**Italy, October 30, 2012...**_

_**IL NORD ITALIA SI MOBILITA!**_

_**Corriere della Sera **__— Uno degli eventi più sconvolgenti della storia della Repubblica si è svolto la scorsa notte, quando i leader della Lega Nord, il partito politico famoso per il suo programma separatista, ha annunciato la formazione del Comitato per la Dichiarazione d'Indipendenza._

_Durante i discorsi della ventitreesima edizione della festa della Lega Nord a Cantù, l'attuale leader Umberto Bossi ha parlato di fronte a più di 40.000 persone; "Il Nord Italia è stufo di essere schiavo di tutti i problemi che il resto d'Italia ci crea, stanco dell'immigrazione clandestina, stanco delle tasse che infieriscono sulle nostre industrie. _

_E' tempo di tirarci fuori; pertanto, dopo aver parlato con la maggior parte dei rappresentanti di Piemonte, Lombardia e Veneto, abbiamo deciso di chiedere all'Italia di riconoscere queste regioni come una Repubblica Padana Alpina indipendente. Lasciate che sappiano che siamo disposti ad imbracciare i fucili, se sarà necessario" ha proclamato, davanti ad una folla festante._

_Nessuna risposta ufficiale del governo ci è ancora giunta, ma diverse fonti parlano di incontri tra il Presidente della Repubblica e i vertici delle forze armate._

_La dichiarazione segue quella della scorsa settimana, in cui Trentino e Friuli hanno espresso l'intenzione di unirsi all'Austria..."_

* * *

_**Geneva, Switzerland...**_

"Wolf, you old dog! There you are!"

The man smiled at his old friend as the portly-looking man stood up and gave him a bear hug, easily returned. From the looks of things, the man had really started letting go of himself over the past few months!

"I see married life's been good for you, Jim," Wolf noted cheekily, his own hand subconsciously already stroking his own hair, which had a streak of grey on either temple — proof positive of the stressful nature of his work.

Portly Jim laughed raucously, hands on his bulging stomach. "That it has! Linda's all too happy to keep sending food my way, so who am I to complain?"

Well, were it anyone else, Wolf would've hazarded a guess that Linda was just buttering up her husband while she shagged her cutest young man of the day. However, having met Linda, Wolf was _somewhat_ confident she wasn't cuckolding his dear friend.

Which was a good thing, because despite his jovial demeanour, Jim was also one of the most dangerous assassins in the field.

"So, what's your poison tonight?" Jim asked casually as he sat back down at his corner booth at the back of the pub. One of the only Irish pubs left in Geneva, following a mass migration back to the homeland once the new Northern King was crowned. "Vodka? Tequila? A shot of the good ol' Johnny Walker for old times' sake?"

"Thanks, but I'll stick with water," Wolf assured his host with a smile, nodding in thanks to the pretty waitress when she put a glass of said liquid in front of him. "I'll be honest, Jim; this isn't a social call."

Jim snorted before drinking from his bottle of beer. "Figured as much," he said with a sly grin. "I'll wager you're behind that mess in Italy, eh?"

Wolf betrayed nothing as he sat there opposite Jim. "Italy's been heading that way for a while now. I did nothing extraordinary."

"But you pushed it along, I'll bet," Jim speculated, still with that sly grin. "No way things ought to have escalated that fast. Maybe in a decade or two, but overnight? That's hard to believe!"

"Believe what you want, I'm not changing my story," Wolf stated neutrally. "And anyway, Italy's not why I'm here."

"Oh?"

Wolf glanced around the bar quickly before leaning forward slightly, waiting for Jim to do the same. "Word around the circuit is that France and Germany have both been pushing for Swiss aid in the war; that true?"

Jim stared down Wolf silently for a moment. "Dunno what you're talking about," the Irish-born man stated just as stonily as Wolf had answered his query about Italy. "That sort of information would be _very_ secret, and very _illegal_ to obtain."

"Yes, and you're a paragon of virtue, Jim," Wolf shot back snarkily. "We both know you know something about this. There's top money in it for you if you play ball."

"What, pounds? Don't make me laugh," Jim snorted derisively. "Your currency's not worth shite after that civil war you lads went through!"

"Not pounds, dollars. five hundred thousand dollars."

Jim perked up at that and then frowned. "Dollars? Yank dollars?" he asked suspiciously. "How'd you get your hands on half a mil in yank cash?"

"Let's just say the people I work for are well connected, and well funded."

Jim snorted again, just as derisively as last time. "People...yeah, right!" he scoffed. "You mean the Northern King, eh Wolfy?"

Wolf just stared at him neutrally.

Jim sighed as he gulped down the last of his beer and then put the empty bottle back on the table. "Look, Wolf, I owe ya for Berlin, and I like ya, so I'll hazard a guess and say you want me to make sure the Swiss stay out of the war, and then I'll go ahead and do it," he offered.

"For the five hundred grand."

"For the five hundred large, aye," Jim acknowledged with a sly grin. "Good will doesn't pay the bills, after all," he added casually before frowning again. "But listen to me, Wolf; get out of the game. That King of yours...he's off his meds!"

"I don't know _what_ you're talking about, Jim," Wolf stated calmly before drinking his water.

"Look, I know most of these idiots," he nudged his head to the other clientele in the pub, "don't know how to read the situation like we do, but don't insult my intelligence. Taking on France? Even if they lose their pissing match with those sausage eaters, and even if you make sure the rest of Europe's too fucked up to help either side out, they'll still be number one dog in the yard!"

"Not if the rumors about Russia are true," Wolf noted, neither denying nor confirming his friend's analysis.

Jim scoffed again. "What, that the Russkies have started a program like the Military Mages? That's a laugh!" he chortled. "Pope's left _nut_, Wolf, their magical community's been accused of manipulating their _Prime Minister_! That's not something you hide under a rug and call it a day!"

Wolf shrugged before finishing his drink. "Either way, we have a deal?"

Jim sighed, knowing his friend wouldn't budge on this. "Fine, sure," he agreed. "I'll make sure things stay the same."

"Payment the usual way?"

"Yeah; Linda still thinks the money's coming from this dump," Jim waved his hand, motioning to the pub. "Best keep it that way. Less bumps in the marriage that way, yeah?"

"If you say so," Wolf said with a tight smile. "Also, anything regarding that other job I asked of you a while back?"

Jim scrunched his eyes in thought. "Other job...?" he scratched his chin, unknowingly drawing attention to his forming double chin. "Oh, right, the girl!" he remembered, snapping his fingers. "Bruges, right?"

Wolf nodded silently.

"Had my feelers keep an eye on her, and I have to say, didn't think we'd actually ever get eyes on a girl with bubblegum pink hair that _wasn't_ in Holland..." he noted with a wry grin. "But yeah, she's been spotted several times. Very far apart, though."

"Where?" Wolf pressed, appearing very interested.

"Paris, Brussels, made a short stop in Vienna, then showed up again two days ago in —"

"Venice," Wolf supplied, his suspicions confirmed.

Jim was quiet for a moment, having deduced Wolf's train of thought. "She a problem, Wolf?" he asked seriously. "Need her taken out? 'Cause I know a few guys..."

Wolf shook his head. "Just keep an eye out; let me know if she's sighted again," he requested. "As soon as you hear of it, if possible."

Jim stared at his friend for a moment, wondering whether to press him on the woman, before shrugging. "Alright, ye've got my word. Anything pops up, you'll be the first to know."

Wolf nodded. "Appreciate it, Jim."

Jim nodded back before grinning. "Now that that's settled, let's have a round of shots, eh? On me!" he insisted raising his hand up for the waitress to take note of him. "Oi, Sheila! A round of the blue label for me and my friend here!"

Wolf grinned at the offer. "Sounds good. Just let me make a quick call, yeah?"

Jim waved him off laughing as he chatted up the incoming waitress. Left to his own devices, Wolf casually made his way towards the restrooms, knocking on both doors first to make sure no one was inside. Looking about, he brought out his cellphone and pressed the appropriate speed-dial number.

Waiting a few seconds while the phone rang, he smiled over to Jim as the portly man waved at him, two shot glasses in hand. "Yeah, it's me," Wolf spoke into his phone. "Aye. Yeah. Wolfsbane, Identification Sigma, Isis, Sigma, Four, Zero, One...yeah. Aquila's done. Tell the wigs they won't have to worry about any southern interference."

He paused while his contact spoke back. "No, no problem," he insisted, glancing briefly towards Jim. "Yeah, it's being taken care of...Alright. Wolfsbane out."

Closing the line, Wolf eyed the device for a moment before tucking it in his pocket. Already, he was starting to see the larger picture of the Northern Sun's plan coming to fruition, no matter how insane it sounded to an age old veteran like Jim. With France and Germany going at it, and no other European power moving in to interfere, the two greatest threats on the continent to the North's ascendancy would wear each other down. All the while, the North's industrial, economic, military, and political star would rise unimpeded.

Walking back to Jim's booth, he smiled as he neared his already-drinking friend. "So, where's that bottle of blue label, eh?"

He could use the stiff drink.

* * *

_**November 12, 2012...**_

_**THE ONCE AND FUTURE QUEEN IS BORN**_

_**THE TIMES (LIVERPOOL)**__ — Joyous news throughout the nation yesterday as Their Majesties, the King and Queen, celebrated the birth of Her Royal Highness, Princess Katerina Lily White, in keeping with the Royal decision to name the current dynasty after the identity His Majesty used to help lead our forces to victory in Spain._

_The celebrations were punctuated by lavish, locally-organized parades in remarkably stable and clear weather conditions that added to the festive mood of the revelers as the announcement occurred. With patriotic ribbons and garlands of red, white, and blue decorating the streets of the capital and every other major population center in the nation and independent parties organizing patriotic displays to showcase their fervour, it has quickly become clear the depth of love and adoration the new Heir Apparent will enjoy for years to come. _

* * *

_**Spitfire Estate, Mage Territories...**_

Ginny sighed as she finished reading the article from the comfort of her rocking chair on the veranda of her new home. One of the perks of being a powerful member of the ruling elite, as it were.

Well, they called it an estate, but the truth was that 'cottage' best suited the place. A simple, small home amidst an acre or two of open land, all hers and no one else's. Oh, sure, she had the occasional boyish distraction around to let off some stress, but as far as people were concerned, it was a pretty set deal that Ginevra Weasley wasn't about to settle down and be a wife, no matter _how_ much her mother wanted her to.

Truth be told, the redheaded commander of the Mage Special Forces (the unofficial title of the _very_ unofficial organization dedicated to doing Flamel's dirty work) had little desire to just "settle" for anyone. After having met Harry Potter at that prison in Spain, no other man had quite fascinated her as much as he had — though perhaps that was a good thing. If anyone ever met her standards, they'd have likely been interned as a potential traitor of the highest calibre!

Still, it did leave her feeling quite...alone.

The problem was that other than Colin or Hermione, she had no one to really relate to. Her brothers were each about as different from each other as air is to a chunk of steel, and none of their personalities matched with hers anymore. Charlie, maybe at some point, but the second-eldest Weasley male had since settled down with a wife and was expecting a son...which had prompted his subsequent decision to get the hell out of the Mage Territories and emigrated to Canada.

Apparently, he wasn't convinced that the Northern Sun _wouldn't_ invade Hogwarts in the near future, and wasn't about to risk his family over it.

She didn't blame him; had she had similar stakes at hand, she would've probably done the same. Thinking like the Northern monarch had its advantages, after all, and so she knew that whatever peace they'd bought through the turning over of the bombs was merely temporary, and that Harry would make good on the threat of destroying the Mage Territories the moment they let down their guard and tried to leverage him.

Ginny folded the paper and left it on her lap as she rocked back and forth, gazing at the well-tended grass of her open fields. She'd essentially claimed this land after it became apparent the Northern Sun wouldn't immediately invade Hogwarts following the Death Eater campaign, and Dumbledore, despite his remarkably advanced age, retained enough of his faculties to remain in the executive and as such authorized her land grab.

Albeit, truthfully, with a little influential help from Flamel.

Her mother hadn't been happy — _that's_ for sure. Ginny almost smirked as she vividly recalled her mother's rather flushed face as she found out her youngest daughter was finally moving out _alone_. There'd been a few arguments over Ginny becoming either a loose woman or a spinster, but eventually her father had been forced to intervene and left the matter entirely in Ginny's hands, for which she was eternally thankful to him.

Still, this life alone had brought up some interesting questions for her...most of them quashed until this new development occurred.

Was she obsessed with Harry Potter?

Her go-to answer of 'no' hadn't changed over the years. Hell, she knew Flamel would've rescinded almost all his trust in her if he ever thought she'd switch sides at the mere batting of Potter's eyelashes. In that sense, even, she could confidently reply that she was not obsessed.

However, the man she'd met in Spain all that time ago still brought a chill to her spine that was not entirely unpleasant. If nothing else, she could readily admit he cut a dashing figure, and having seen him rally his people time and time again, she knew he was equally gifted in charisma.

Not to mention the fact that she owed all her current privileges to him.

If she hadn't _listened_ to him back when he'd been captured, she would've likely remained another of Dumbledore's pawns in his eternal, naive game of handicapped chess against the Death Eaters. Instead, Harry had opened her eyes to a whole new perspective of the world, one which was so much more appealing, yet also far more dangerous. As such, instead of being another foot soldier, she now _commanded_ foot soldiers of her own, and held the confidence of one of the most powerful men in the Mage Territories!

But that didn't answer her questions, though. Was she obsessed? Was she crushing still on the monarch of the Northern Sun? Was it more than that?

In another life, Ginny could've said that maybe the two of them would've been made for each other — soulmates of a sort. But this wasn't that world. Harry stood for things she couldn't accept or believe in, whereas Flamel offered a much brighter world in her eyes. A world where mages would never have to fear persecution. If she threw her lot in with Harry, she'd have been drafted and sent to war zones just to prove she was loyal.

While she no longer really held her (in her opinion) childish prejudices against killing her enemies, she wasn't all that fond of using her powers for mass killing.

A soft pop awoke her from her musings, and though instinctively ready to brandish her wand and hex the intruder on the spot, the soft clicking of heels and familiar gait reassured her and allowed her to relax again.

"Make yourself at home, 'Mione," she greeted her guest.

There was a brief chuckle as the older woman approached her, having been right about to knock on the door. "Again on the veranda? You _do_ know you look like you're seventy when you're like that, right?"

Ginny grinned to herself as her friend soon came into view, conjuring up her own rocking chair without much effort. "I _do_ feel that way, sometimes," she quipped. "What's your excuse?"

"I like rocking," Hermione stated simply, a small playful smile on her lips.

Ginny laughed. It felt good to have her friend around — Hermione was always good company to her. Unfortunately, she also tended to show up when something back at Hogwarts had gone balls-up. "Not that I'm not enjoying your wit, 'Mione, but to what do I owe the honor of having the Deputy Minister in my home today?"

Hermione was silent for a moment, ostensibly gathering her thoughts, before sighing. "I'm afraid things may have taken a turn for the worst at the Castle," she stated.

"Another scandal?" After one of Rufus Scrimgeour's aides had managed to impregnate his daughter about a year ago, there'd been a veritable flood of scandals coming to light. Most of them exposed by none other than pseudo-reporter Rita Skeeter.

"I wish," Hermione snorted. "It's Dumbledore."

Ah. Ginny nodded in understanding, perfectly aware of the situation she was now referring to. Despite his incredible constitution and magical powers, it was no secret that Dumbledore was pushing the age limit of his body. While, yes, there were a few other witches or wizards who were far older, it was generally agreed that Dumbledore would likely not get that far.

"What's Poppy's opinion?"

Hermione sighed heavily. "Pomfrey thinks he's got maybe a year, year and a half tops, assuming constant care," she informed her. "I won't lie — it's not looking good. Even though Scimgeour wouldn't inherit Dumbledore's post, it _does_ pave the way for our first ever election of a new Chief Treoraí."

Ginny nodded again. Ever since the Ministry's final fall from grace on the metaphorical eve of the Civil War, its flight to Hogwarts had precipitated a crisis unforeseen by either the Hogwarts faction or the Ministry remnant — namely, who was in charge?

On the one hand, the refugees already living in Hogwarts refused to allow Rufus to continue ruling, due in part to the perception that his lack of action regarding Death Eater infiltrators and sponsored corruption had been the main reason for the collapse of the nation — and thus their subsequent need to flee the region.

On the other hand, however, the Ministry and its adherents pointed out that unlike Dumbledore or his council of advisers, the Minister had been legitimately elected into power, and that until such a moment where new elections were called, this effectively meant that Scrimgeour ought to have the politically supreme position.

Naturally, both sides took exception to the other's arguments, and as such tensions began to rise as partisans of both camps began to clamour for more...direct forms of protest. As violence threatened to break out due in no small part to both leaders' intransigence on the issue — or rather, Scrimgeour's refusal to back down and Dumbledore's reluctance to allow the war-hawk Scrimgeour to lead their nation into a pointless war — it was ironically Ginny, widely regarded as one of the political black sheep of the remaining mage population, and her associate Nicholas Flamel who brokered the agreement that was, even now, still in force.

Namely, a power-sharing system. Both leaders would remain as such, under a system similar to that of a parliamentary presidency. Dumbledore would retain the position of Chief Treoraí, similar to a President, whereas Scrimgeour would become the Prime Minister of the fledgling nation. As a result of the brokered agreement, however, elections were never held, which thus brought them to their current situation.

"I'm guessing Scrimgeour will want one of his own to occupy that particular throne," Ginny analysed. "It'd certainly pave the way towards pushing through a law to return full power to him."

Hermione huffed petulantly. "It's an outrage!" she confided in her friend. "I know Scrimgeour's my boss and all, but the way he's been gloating about this is...vile, Ginny! You should've seen him! If he hadn't learned the news in the middle of one of his interminable fundraisers, I swear by Circe he would've danced!"

Ginny gave her friend a comforting smile. "That's politics for you, 'Mione," she stated, knowing well how often the facade of such tended to obscure a person's much darker nature. She'd seen it in Flamel before, and wasn't at all surprised to hear a politician like Scrimgeour was the same. "I'm sure Flamel would part with some Elixir for Dumbledore, if you asked."

Hermione shook her head sadly. "Dumbledore refuses to take any," she admitted. "It was one of the first things we brought up. Even Pomfrey was for it, and you know how she is about these sorts of things."

Ginny nodded.

"It gets even worse, Ginny," Hermione added, looking completely exhausted as she related the clusterfuck that was Hogwarts politics. "You remember the task force Dumbledore created after the Ministry's fall?"

"Which one?" Ginny asked, scrunching her brow as she thought back to that time. "I remember one on employment, one on housing," which she would, considering she'd worked for it for a while, "one for the preservation of culture...what a load of crock that one was...and one on near-human rights."

Hermione had the integrity to sneer at the last one, considering she'd vehemently opposed it. Ostensibly created to promote Centaur and Merman rights, the task force had deliberately excluded House Elves from initial consideration and had been manned by mostly anti-inhuman people, almost leading to a savage confrontation between the affected parties and the human population of the valley. Fortunately, Dumbledore had stepped in at the last minute and disbanded the organization.

Of course, the reason _Ginny_ remembered it was because Flamel had asked her to investigate its membership and had found that most of them had been formerly affiliated with the Death Eaters. Said people were then...disappeared.

"None of those — I mean the one about the Dark Arts," Hermione reminded her.

Ginny frowned. "I don't remember any such thing. Are you sure Dumbledore created it?"

Now it was Hermione's turn to frown. "Of course I'm sure! I helped him staff it!" she said. "Weren't you briefed?"

Ginny shrugged, any and all resentment towards Dumbledore for his scepticism regarding her soundness long since used up. "I guess he didn't trust me enough to let me in on it."

Hermione had the decency to look abashed at this, having been honestly unaware of this fact. "Oh...sorry..." she apologized somewhat lamely with a flushed face, before taking a few moments to rally together and plough on. "Anyway, it's still active, though only the highest levels of the government are supposed to know about it."

"Scrimgeour knows about it?" Ginny asked.

"No...and that's the problem," Hermione admitted. "We've been diverting funds from other task forces — always small amounts, mind you — to fund it, but once Dumbledore is gone, that information's going to fall into Scrimgeour's hands one way or another."

"Unless you're about to tell me the task force regularly sacrificed babies and raped virginal women, I really can't see what's wrong with a task force dedicated to fighting the Dark Arts. In fact, I imagine Scrimgeour would pin a medal on each staffer."

"You'd be right..._if_ that's what the task force does," Hermione stated cautiously.

Ginny straightened up, her easiness dissipating quickly. "Hermione...what's going on here?"

"It's not illegal!...well, not _technically_ illegal," she qualified in a mumble. "Look, Dumbledore was really worried about something when the Ministry fell and Potter was on the rise! He asked me to help him gather a few good candidates for an investigate group dedicated to fighting the Dark Arts."

"Bookworms? Why are you so worked up about bookworms?" Ginny asked, seriously not understanding her friend's panic. As far as she was hearing, Dumbledore hadn't done much other than embezzle some money to fund a book club.

"They weren't bookworms...in the strictest sense," her friend danced around the issue. "More like...relic hunters? Legend seekers? That sort of thing."

Silence.

"...Are you telling me...that Dumbledore embezzled money to fund a treasure hunt?" Ginny asked slowly, the edges of her lips threatening to rise upwards as she fought down a laugh.

"...Sort...of?"

Ginny burst out laughing, slumping into her seat, as she processed that thought. Apparently, whatever accusations of senility had been thrown at Dumbledore all this time had been right on the money! Spending public funds on treasure hunts?! The man _had_ gone mad!

"It's not funny!" Hermione protested, huffing. "It was serious stuff!"

"Hermione," Ginny had to fight back the impulse to keep laughing just to get that word out. "Dumbledore used _public money_ to fund a _treasure_ _hunt_! It's _hilarious_!"

"Not if the artifacts have something to do with..." she looked around first, an act Ginny thought a bit pointless, considering her own paranoia and extraordinary warding measures. "...Voldemort," she finally whispered, managing to shock the laughter right out of Ginny.

Frowning deeply, Ginny stopped her rocking and turned to meet her friend's gaze. "That's not a very funny joke, Hermione," Ginny warned, knowing her friend would understand where she was coming from.

In 1981, when Voldemort had been vanquished, his death, as most know, did not manage to kill the Death Eater movement entirely. Following unusual events throughout the early to mid nineties, a cult of Death Eaters had surged again, starting a terrorist and infiltration spree that caused the eventual collapse of the Ministry and the very need for a Mage Territory.

Unfortunately, in one of those sprees, two of Ginny's brothers, Fred and George, had been killed by the rampaging monsters. With them, sadly, had also gone the light from the Weasley family, as their natural good humour and intelligence had managed to keep them all optimistic regarding their situation. As a result, Ron had grown bitter, resentful, and generally ruthless, while Bill threw himself in his work, Charlie took less risks, Percy isolated himself even further, and Ginny lost much of the laughter in her life. It also drove her into the arms of the Auror Corps.

Even her parents had lost that unwavering optimism, causing them to be far more pliant towards the government.

Naturally, thus, the issue of people wasting public money on irrelevant subjects regarding the monster who'd torn her family apart was not going to sit well with Ginny.

"I wish it was, Ginny," Hermione confessed with a sigh, running a hand through her hair. "Look, after...the fall, Dumbledore, I think, began to realize he wasn't going to live forever...and I guess he knew something he wasn't telling anyone else about, because whatever it was he knew about Voldemort, it had him spooked."

Ginny's frown never wavered. "How so?"

"He became...obsessed, for lack of a better word. Looking into these weird, ancient texts, legends...frankly, anything he could get his hands on. He doesn't know this, but I also know that he spent some of his own money on investigations into Voldemort's past."

"Sounds like he thinks Voldemort's still around," Ginny opined, feeling sick to her stomach as she said the words. There was little in this world that still surprised her or disgusted her as much as the idea of Voldemort being amongst the living. One of the few things she gave thanks to the Potters for.

Hermione was slow to nod along, knowing how touchy the subject was with her friend. "I think so too," Hermione admitted softly as she leaned forward and clasped her hands, raising them to her forehead. "I mean, I can't really explain his behaviour in any other way! And if _he_ thinks Voldemort's not dead...Ginny..."

"There's no proof," Ginny stated firmly, unwilling to go down that road.

"If anyone would know, it's him," Hermione pointed out.

"Why?" Ginny half-asked, half-demanded. "Because he's Dumbledore? Infallible? All-knowing? He's an old man haunted by his _failures_, Hermione!" she snapped, though Hermione knew not to take it personally. Ginny hadn't ever quite forgiven Dumbledore for the loss of Fred and George, no matter how civil she'd always been around him. "He couldn't handle Voldemort, and he can't handle Potter!"

"...Maybe," Hermione conceded. "But even so, if he's right, then the Death Eaters are far more dangerous than we're giving them credit for, and now that they're being pushed out of their territories..."

"You're afraid Voldemort, if he's alive and I'm not saying he is, will start invading our lands," Ginny summed up, still somewhat glaring. Such a wonderful day, ruined by this conversation!

Hermione nodded silently.

"It won't happen," Ginny stated.

"But if it does?"

"It. Won't."

"Humor me, Ginny; what if it does?" Hermione insisted.

Ginny's glare darkened. "Then I'd be all too happy to rip him limb from limb," she swore.

"And I won't stop you, but if he does, then whatever edge Dumbledore thinks he's found on him would be invaluable," Hermione reasoned. "So if the task force is interfered with by someone like Scrimgeour, it _could_ seal our fates."

"What do you want me to do about that? I don't do electoral rigging," Ginny stated/lied firmly, still not quite convinced of the need for the task force, now that she knew what it was meant to do.

"...take it under your wing," Hermione stated carefully, raising her hands to preempt Ginny's instinctual response. "Hear me out!"

Ginny settled down, arms crossed under her chest.

Hermione sighed in relief. "Look, I don't rightly know what your organization does, and frankly I'm a bit afraid to find out," she admitted, which Ginny had to concede was a wise stance to take. The organization she was referring to, the Society of Magic, was her legal employer, and though it publicly promoted an agenda of promotion for magical culture, it basically functioned as the public facade for Flamel's black ops.

After all, there was _no way_ any old NGO could pay the sort of salary Ginny would've needed to pay the taxes on her estate.

"...But if you guys took over the task force from the government, we could erase the money trail, or even just make it go somewhere else entirely!" Hermione stated, much to Ginny's surprise. Hermione had always been rather fond of rules and the rule of law, so for her to come to her asking her to help her break the law was somewhat unprecedented.

"Why go so far, 'Mione?" Ginny asked, honestly rather curious.

"Dumbledore's a great man, Ginny," Hermione insisted. "Despite his failings. He shouldn't be remembered through a scandal that Scrimgeour will blow way out of proportions the moment he's gone!"

Ginny considered it. On the one hand, letting Scrimgeour have a go at the man who'd sidelined her more than once was rather appealing. If nothing else, it would prove Potter correct on the fact that Dumbledore was always too blind to his own failings to see reality for what it really was.

On the other hand, however, her friend — her _closest_ friend — was all but begging her for help, even going so far as to suggest breaking the law to protect a man she clearly still admired, warts and all.

It was a no-brainer from the beginning, and Ginny knew it. With a sigh, she ran a hand through her long, red hair before shaking her head in resignation. "Fine," she conceded. "I'll talk to Flamel about it. As long as the old man doesn't interfere, we should be able to take over in a matter of weeks."

Hermione looked like she could kiss her friend there and then, but settled for enveloping the younger, petite woman in a bear hug.

Ginny merely smiled as she returned the hug. "Doesn't mean I like him any better, though."

"Of course not."

* * *

_**Post-AN**: Oh, one more thing. I've been getting a few reviews left whose authors have turned off PMing, so I haven't had a chance to reply. Here's those replies now:_

_Anon: Yes, I know. However, this rivalry is specifically referring to the AU end to WWII and its consequences in this universe._

_Nicol: I understand your views, but really the newscasts are entirely flavor - irrelevant to the general outline of the chapter, due in part to the fact that they are referenced to and summarized in their following passages._

_Fred: Amazingly, you're the only one to ask me that. Wenshi means Cultured Knight in Chinese. It reflects Harry's (who, in case you haven't noticed from prior chapters, is a fan of Chinese military classics) perception of Neville's personality._

_And that's it! So until next time!_

_-MB_


	23. Time Skip: Evening the Odds

**_AN: _**_HOLY CRAP WHAT AM I DOING?_

_Just kidding. Anyway, this chapter took a full day to write - and i mean FULL DAY - during which I think I might've left my comfy recliner only to eat and bathroom breaks. And for it? FORTY PAGES. Nearly FIFTEEN THOUSAND WORDS._

_I think I might've lost a few years off my lifespan thanks to that. _

_Anyway, before the spam-fest begins regarding the rather major revelations in this chapter, please, PLEASE remember to read the Post-AN notes. If you don't...well, more silly you. Flames will continue to be deleted. And do try to leave signed reviews, so we can chat things out, eh?_

_Cheers,_

_MB_

_PS: New flags to be up in a few. PLEASE VOTE!_

* * *

_**December 16, 2012...**_

_Le Matin (Geneva) - Face à une série de questions sur les raisons de l'enlisement des combats dans le centre-ville de Stuttgart, le ministre de la Défense Pierre-Yves Martenson a présenté comme cause les partisans allemands frappant de manière indiscriminée les convois de ravitaillement, de transport et de secours de l'Armée de Terre, en violation des lois de la guerre. Nos correspondants sur le terrain présentent toutefois une image différente de la situation, la résistance des forces allemandes se montrant de plus en plus acharnée alors que les combats redoublent d'intensité dans les décombres de la ville pourtant isolée depuis plus d'un mois. Si les informations ne sortent que de façon très sporadique, elles n'en demeurent pas moins cohérente dans le portrait qu'elles tracent d'une force à présent rompue au combat asymétrique et exploitant sans vergogne sa connaissance de la ville._

_Si la victoire française semble à présent inéluctable, l'Allemagne aura sans doute préservé son honneur au travers de ses défenseurs._

* * *

_**Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Kingdom of the Netherlands...**_

"Minister! How very pleasant to see you this evening!"

Joshua had a practiced smile ready when he heard the exuberant greeting of his Dutch counterpart. "Pieter! Lovely reception you've thrown together!" he greeted the smaller man with welcoming ease. "Really, you've quite outdone yourself!"

Pieter Klerks, Minister of Foreign Affairs for the Kingdom fo the Netherlands, as well as one of the main representatives of the Northern-Benelux alliance, waved off the compliment with a grin — no doubt aided in part by the half-drunk glass of whiskey in the man's hand. From the looks of it, it wasn't the first one he'd had, either.

"Oh, come now, my dear friend," the Dutch minister said humbly, "it's nothing quite like that reception you hosted after we signed the treaty!"

Joshua smiled noncommittally at the comment, though he knew it to be true. Harry had pulled out all the stops for the negotiations, at Joshua's behest, and had welcomed the Benelux representatives with open arms and a grand reception. A few members of Parliament had grumbled about the expenses rung up, but for the most part Sirius had managed to keep it out of major public scrutiny by pushing for the people to be just as excited for the alliance as the government was.

"But you know, I had no idea you would be in the country," the Minister then noted, sounding as confused as his facial expression seemed to suggest. Still, experience had taught Joshua that if anyone knew how to act, it was professional Ministers. "I would've thought that with the Swiss declaring the German resistance dead in the water, you'd be back in Liverpool doing damage control!"

A thin smile graced Joshua's face at the reminder. Calmly, he took a sip of wine before deigning his counterpart with an answer. "The Swiss press is merely speculating, Pieter," Joshua stated calmly. "There's never any real way to know these things. One day the resistance may be faltering, the next it manages to strike a _coup de grace_ against the enemy. Really, time will tell..."

"Your optimism truly assuages my fears, my friend," the Dutch diplomat said with a smile that Joshua never once believed. While the Benelux seemed rather at ease with the alliance, Klerks had been one of the sceptical voices within the arrangement, questioning why a nation such as the Northern Sun would seek to ally itself with someone else, particularly in these troubled and anarchic times.

Of course, a thorough investigation had also found that Klerks had anti-mage leanings and, while not a bigot, he _was_ rather suspicious of them as a whole; after all, why _wouldn't_ these overpowered pseudo-humans abuse their powers for wealth and power?

It was all rather stark and pessimistic, in Joshua's opinion, but then there would always be this sort of person running around. It dearly calmed him to know that at least Klerk was the minority voice within the Benelux delegation.

The sound of laughter coming from nearby distracted them both, then, though Joshua was quicker to recover and, seizing upon this opportunity, managed to politely dismiss himself from Pieter's company.

He hadn't taken a fifth step away before someone far more familiar came to his side.

"That looked like it went well," Xeno murmured as he fell into step with the Minister.

Fantastic. If there was anything Joshua was more wary about than actual politicians, it was spooks. Moreso the spooks who worked for Harry; unlike normal spies, Xeno approached the intelligence game not only with remarkable wit and intelligence, but also with a near-fanatical devotion to the King.

"Klerks was just being his _charming_ self," Joshua stated dismissively. "He seems to think there's merit in that Swiss op-ed on the German resistance."

Xeno shrugged. "There is, but not for long," he stated simply.

"I _don't_ want to know."

"Good, because I'm not going to tell you," Xeno answered calmly before taking a sip of his wine. "Anyway, we're getting to be shorthanded on manpower, so you-know-who sent me to relay new orders."

A chill went down Joshua's spine. What hair-brained scheme did Harry have in mind that he thought he'd needed not just a personal delivery, but also one given by the Director of the Special Intelligence Service himself?

"There's a new project being started in _her_ labs — order from you-know-who — and we're going to need the Benelux's cooperation to implement its results in their territory. You know, for Operation Sunrise."

In other words, for the invasion of Europe.

"Do I get to tell them the details of what they're letting us build here?"

"No."

"What it is, generally?"

"No."

"Then how, pray tell, do you expect me to sell to them the idea that they should blindly agree to us building highly-secret _things_ on their turf, without so much as a hint as to what said things are!"

Xeno shrugged. "That's your business, milord. Mine's to make sure the details never get heard until the time is right."

"Klerks will never allow this to happen!" Joshua pointed out in an angry hiss, feeling a migraine coming on as the head spy of the Northern Sun shrugged without care. "The man's already sceptical about our motives! And with all this shite you're piling on, I'm starting to feel sympathetic!"

Cold, hard eyes met his. Xeno never flinched nor made any move to insinuate he'd been intimidated or moved by Joshua's rant, which admittedly scared the diplomat a bit. After all, a man who could not be intimidated nor budged was a dangerous man to deal with, no matter what arena you did it in. "I've already said it, milord," Xeno stated neutrally. "My job is to relay orders. Yours is to make sure they're carried out and that the locals don't ask too many questions. If that's all, I think I'll be heading off now; my daughter's waiting for me back home."

Joshua envied that, even if he didn't say anything as the spymaster of the Northern Sun walked away, having saddled a colleague with an almost impossible task without even batting an eyelash.

Sighing in frustration, Joshua brought up his glass and gulped down the entire contents of it in one fell swoop. He'd need the liquid courage if he was going to broach a known alliance sceptic about the new terms of their arrangement.

* * *

_**February 15, 2013...**_

_**LE MONDE**__, __**Editorial**__ — L'attentat ayant frappé le siège du Parti Communiste, place du Colonel Fabien, vient de faire sa vingt-deuxième victime alors qu'un officier de police vient de succomber aux blessures qu'il a subi en tentant de porter secours aux blessés peu après la déflagration. Les autorités de la préfecture de Paris ont confirmé que l'origine de son traumatisme était d'origine para-psychique -ou "magique"-, citant comme suspect principal le groupe terroriste Rédemption. Celui-ci, supposé regrouper de nombreux Mages non enregistrés, est recherché pour actes de terrorisme et crimes de trahison en temps de guerre._

_Cependant, si la rédaction du Monde ne peut que se joindre à toute la population dans une condamnation ferme d'un acte qui vient frapper une fois de plus une démocratie de plus en plus fragile, la question du groupe Rédemption ne peut être évitée. Ses actions polarisent en effet chaque jour un peu plus une société qui subit les effets de relations internationales toujours plus tendues et d'une guerre qui s'enlise à vue d'œil. La précipitation des autorités à accuser ce groupe de terrorisme là où ses seules actions confirmées ont été limitées à de la propagande et du soutien aux Mages non-enregistrés a attiré de nombreux parallèles avec les heures sombres de la Deuxième Guerre Mondiale, attirant une sympathie inattendue de la part d'une frange de la population française voyant ce groupe comme une incarnation moderne de la Résistance. A ceci il est impossible d'ignorer l'effet de son chef, ou porte-parole, la structure interne du groupe restant évidemment inconnue des médias, dont seule la voix est connue au travers de ses multiples interventions diffusées illégalement. Le charisme et la conviction de cette jeune voix féminine, associés au rapprochement fait par certains, lui ont valu un surnom désormais ancré dans le collectif : la Pucelle de Paris._

_Nous ignorons ici si cette "Pucelle" est responsable ou non des actes desquels elle est accusée. En revanche, ce qui nous apparait comme une certitude est que son influence grandit de jour en jour, pour la simple raison qu'elle est désormais l'une des seules à présenter l'autre point de vue d'une question de société qui risque, à l'instar de la Résistance et de la Collaboration, de garder sa marque sur la société française au cours des décennies à venir._

* * *

_**Albi, France...**_

"One hundred rifles."

"Check."

"Two hundred crates of ammunition," droned on Price as he introduced his French counterparts to the newest covert weapons shipment the Northern military had decided they were worthy of. Not that he thought they did, after managing to bomb the Communist Party's HQ on their own pretty well. "Two crates of explosives. One case of electronic sabotage equipment..."

"All check, sir," Ghost stated as he checked off the items on his datapad.

Price sighed in relief, tossing the clipboard over to his French colleague, who was still gawking at the shipment in awe. "There ya go, Jean," he said with a mischievous smile that promised nothing good. "Enough party favours to ruin the government's day."

"Indeed, _monsieur_ Price," Jean agreed as he watched his men pilfer the rifle shipment in particular, vocally showing their awe at the first-rate weaponry. "But, if I might ask, is this not too obvious of your support for our cause? Surely, the _salôts_ in Paris will realize there is no way we could've acquired this sort of weaponry on our own, or from the Germans!"

Price snorted. "Good luck with that, lad," he said dismissively. "Tons of equipment went missing during our little tiff up north," he euphemistically referred to the Civil War. "Not all of it logged. So who's to say these rifles weren't lost then? Maybe some enterprising piece of scum decided to abscond with His Majesty's property and sell it on the side for a quick quid, yeah?"

Jean blinked for a moment before oh-ing in realization and then joining Price for a laugh. Pity he didn't realize that Price was more laughing _at_ him than with him.

Fortunately for the North, however, Jean wasn't in charge.

"Once again, your King proves to be a friend to the cause of liberty, equality, and justice for all Frenchmen, Sergeant Price," a beautifully melodic voice stated calmly from behind the men.

Turning, Price ignored the fumbling Jean as the man tried to babble away an explanation for his idleness, instead preferring to drink in as much of the beautiful voice's equally radiant owner.

Tall and willowy, but with an amazingly fit and petite frame and gloriously radiant blue eyes that shone against her silvery-blonde hair, the leader of the French group known as Redemption never ceased to charm the breath out of the lungs of the Northern commandos.

With good reason — as word had it, she wasn't fully human.

"His Majesty sends his regards, miss," Despite his instinctual reaction to the woman, Price had enough self-control to quickly rally — a trait he was glad to see echoed in his men, who also managed to remain at full attention, although with some visual strain. "And hopes you achieve your goal."

The woman smiled, somehow managing to pull off looking even more beautiful. By Price's side, Jean had practically devolved into a babbling ape. "Please send our regards back to your King, Sergeant Price. We are glad for his support." She glanced over to the crates of weaponry and supplies before waving Jean off to leave them, which the man did extremely willingly. "Though we wonder why he sends us guns, but not the men to wield them."

Price had been warned about this. Veelas, the spooks back home had called them, and their halfblood progeny, had the uncanny ability to literally seduce the answer out of any member of the opposite sex. That meant that unless one had a will of pure steel, there was a very good chance one could willingly reveal one's secrets despite logical reservations.

It was torture, in his opinion.

Though not in pain, he felt his logical mind get overridden with lust, his baser impulses demanding he cave in to this enchanting creature's demands. How utterly senseless! Had he not fought through several wars, more than his fair amount of black ops, and several near-misses with death? And now he was just going to cave in because this woman had some inexplicable power over men?

Fortunately, he did not have to find out, as a wash of some sort of energy suddenly permeated the tunnels, breaking the temptress' hold over them. Instinctively, his weapon and that of his men rose up to aim at her. Whatever justification she might have had for doing this, she'd attacked them.

"Hands in the air!" he shouted, a cry repeated angrily by his fellow soldiers. "Hands in the _fucking_ air!"

The woman, however, seemed shaken by something, Her head snapped to and fro, looking for some unseen enemy as her entire body posture hunched over, ready to duck and cover or strike as needed.

"You deaf, woman?!" Price shouted at her. "Hands in the air!"

"Now, now, sergeant," a voice unfamiliar to Price crooned to him from further down the tunnels. He turned to aim at this new intruder when he heard then saw two soldiers of the resistance flying backwards, crumpling in a corner as footsteps sounded out in the damp cavern. "A gentleman should never raise his voice to a lady."

"Identify yourself!" he ordered, as one of his men peeled off his aim from the Veela to give supporting fire to his CO.

As it turned out, there was no need to. Slowly, from out of the corner, the sight of a familiar blue greatcoat appear, followed by its well known, equally blue ensemble.

Military Mage.

Slowly, lowering his weapon, Price squinted as he tried to make out the wearer's identity, their face covered in the shadows the dim lights cast.

"Identify yourself, sir!" he repeated, though his companion, too, started to lower his weapon.

From out the darkness, the Military Mage stepped out with a calm gait, his posture and body language telling of his great confidence in his own safety and skill. As the shadows peeled off his face, the Military Mage snapped a salute to Price, though his eyes never left the twitchy Veela female.

"Sergeant Price," he greeted. "General Wenshi, Military Mages," he introduced himself. "I'm here for _her_."

The woman, already reacting instinctively to the man's great power, became even more frazzled at the pronouncement. Turning, she quickly shouted, "_Au secours! On nous attaque_!" in the hopes of summoning reinforcements. Hopes that were quickly dashed by Neville wagging his finger at her.

"Unfortunately, you'll find that this entire area's surrounded in a silencing ward. No one's going to hear you."

Price and his subordinate turned on a dime to let Neville walk past them, ramrod at attention. Nevermind Neville's rank — his reputation as a Military Mage was well known amongst Special Ops, due in no small part to his daring raid on the Spanish presidential convoy at Sagunto. While some of his standing had eroded due to the disaster that was the initial Death Eater expedition, he had nonetheless maintained both his high rank and the confidence of the King.

It also helped that since then, he had distinguished himself in Northern Ireland, where a three-way battle between the Order of the Phoenix, Death Eaters, and former British Army had raged since the fall of the British Crown. Neville, at the head of a Northern Army, had done well in putting down all three warring factions and reasserting control over the region, despite the protests of the Irish Republic, who had hoped to do so themselves once the three factions had worn each other down sufficiently.

A curse flew from the witch's wand, which he easily deflected to one side with a flick of his wrist. Another tried to strike him, only to meet with the same fate. Another, then another, until as he walked nearer to her, she found herself cornered, looking at this imposing mage with defiance mingled with fear.

"So this is the true face of the Northern King!" she spat. "I ask questions, so he sends one of his dogs to silence me?!"

To her credit, she did not flinch when Neville's hand slammed the brick wall right beside her head — not an accident, merely an act of intimidation, which failed. Drawing near, Neville fixed her with a hard stare.

"You're quite mistaken," he told her calmly before drawing back and straightening up his ruffled uniform, then proceeding to tug at his gloves to make sure they were tightly fixed. "I am merely here to _answer_ your questions, so I believe you owe us an apology. Were I here to take your life, it would've already been mine."

"Sir, why weren't told you were coming?" Price piped up then, having allowed the Military Mage to take the witch down a few pegs. "Could've saved everyone a lot of headaches!"

"A fair assessment, sergeant," Neville acceded. "Unfortunately, this was decided at the last minute. His Majesty realized from your debriefs that the little lady here was trying to dig up some information on our plans, so he decided to send me here to smooth things over."

In truth, a rather large show of faith, considering Neville was one of the most well known war heroes of the North.

"You attacked my men!" the woman pointed out as she motioned towards the crumpled men Neville had dispatched upon his appearance. "Why should I believe anything you say?!"

"Unfortunate, but they seemed fixated on the belief that I was the enemy," Neville stated evenly with a shrug. "Don't worry, though; they're not dead."

The witch glared at him fiercely before lowering her wand. However much she wanted to hex him for his actions, she wanted answers more. As the leader of Redemption, she had a duty to her followers and the thousands of mages still being persecuted to ensure their safety both from the French and the foreign powers who might use their plight as a chess piece on some bigger political game. "You said you'd answer my questions, right?" she asked. He nodded. "You swear to be completely honest with me?"

"As long as what you ask doesn't infringe on our secrecy laws," he conditioned. A fair enough reservation, though it didn't help to settle her suspicion.

She nodded reluctantly in agreement to the condition, but then glanced at Price and his men. Fortunately, Neville understood and turned to the veteran warriors. "You can go ahead and exfil, sergeant. I'm my own ride out."

Price dithered for a moment, unsure whether to allow this high-ranking Military Mage war hero to remain alone with a witch who had a proven genetic ability to seduce men out of the information they guarded jealously.

"I got you out of your entrancement, sergeant; I can handle myself," Neville reassured the man, having discerned the cause of uncertainty within the soldier.

Price finally nodded in acquiescence, saluted (along with the rest of his squad), then barked orders for them to leave. Within moments, Neville and the woman were left alone in the damp tunnels.

Conjuring up a stool, Neville sat down and waited for her to do the same before motioning for her to begin.

She needed no prompting. "Who are you, really?" she asked simply. "I've heard of Wenshi, but that's obviously a codename. So who are you?" Neville raised an eyebrow. He'd been expecting hardball questions right off the bat, but she wanted to know more about him personally? What a letdown!

Then there was the fact that she _should_ know who he was. "You don't remember?" he asked her with a smirk. "Believe it or not, you _do_ know me."

The witch frowned. She doubted it; after all, the man was not unappealing in looks, skill, or personality, from what little she'd seen — certainly a man to hold her attention. Still, it did bother her that despite the European global community being rather tight-knit as far as gossip went, she'd never heard of someone who verbally matched the description or skill of the man before her. It was as though he had popped out of nowhere!

Grasping this apparent memory-related blank, Neville chuckled to himself. "I have to say, I'm somewhat disappointed. Think back to 1994. What happened that year?"

The witch thought back to that time. She'd been in school back then. Her family was all together, and her sister was still very much alive, radiant with her beauty and charm. She recalled Beauxbatons! She remembered how wonderful Madame Maxime and the teachers had been!

And then, that wonderful moment when she heard they'd be going to England to compete in the...

"Triwizard Tournament..." she whispered, unaware she'd been speaking aloud. Looking up, she saw Neville nod, a self-satisfied look on his face. "The Triwizard Tournament? You participated in that?"

Neville chuckled again. "Merlin, no! I was 14 back then! But I did get to meet you. Think back to the Second Task. What happened after the lake?"

She complied, realizing that there _was_ something about this unfamiliar man which nonetheless tugged at her memory. The Second Task, was it? She remembered how her sister had been involved. Those miserable moments in the middle of the lake. She remembered feeling uncomfortably wet and cold afterwards, until someone had kindly put a blanket on her shoulders...

Wait.

Her eyes widened slowly as she fixed Neville with an incredulous look. "Neville?" she whispered.

Neville smiled. "Hello Gabrielle."

* * *

_**April 30, 2014...**_

_**MONTH OF SCANDAL INTENSIFIES**_

_**LIVERPOOL TIMES**__, LIVERPOOL — An already rocky month for French public relations following a crackdown on political dissidents and a failed assassination of Field Marshal Jacques Rousseau_ _has apparently found greater room to expand as a new shocking development in Germany rocks the civilized world._

_General Francois de la Roche, in charge of maintaining peace and order in the region of North Rhine-Westphalia, has been accused of executing two hundred German prisoners of war in what has been described as one of the most insidious massacres in recent European history._

_The accusation has come to light following numerous eyewitnesses to this horrible war crime stepping forward to denounce the general, who has issued a statement denying all accusations and claiming the whole affair political persecution. Nonetheless, with the accusations issued, the new President Pro Tempore of the French Republic has announced that General de la Roche has been relieved of command and has been placed in custody pending a thorough investigation._

_The news hits the French public at a particularly awkward time, as the former French President's recent resignation over the deaths of numerous civilian supporters of the anti-government group Redemption during a crackdown on a peaceful rally has galvanized much of the population into rioting against what they deem as heavy-handed tactics by the government to limit their rights to free speech._

* * *

"Mommy, mommy! Look!"

Elicia smiled as little Katerina rushed up to her with what seemed like a hastily collected bouquet of flowers. No doubt her gardener would freak out tomorrow when she noticed the missing plants. Still, it was just adorable to see her daughter smiling up at her with that toothy little smile of hers, her sundress covered in splotches of dirt as the restless Royal Princess of the Northern Sun exerted all of her seemingly inexhaustible energy into discovering more about the world around her.

"Your Majesty, I'm so sorry!" her nanny apologized fervently as she rushed in right behind Katerina, looking haggard and worn out from having to chase the terrible two-year old all around the gardens, no doubt. "I tried to tell her not to, but..."

She was quieted by Elicia raising a hand. The Queen merely smiled down at her exuberant daughter and lifted her up from the ground in a tight embrace. "They're very pretty, Katie!" she praised her daughter warmly. "Where did you get them?"

Obviously, Elicia already had a fair idea of that, but it always helped to let children take the spotlight in these early years. Already, Katerina was a bright, bubbly child, eager to learn and discover — much like her mother and father. There was no real need to stunt that growth.

"Garden!" Katerina exclaimed happily, hugging her mother. Elicia blushed and had to restrain herself from hugging her daughter just as hard. Instead, she settled for a gentle hug and then touched her forehead with her own.

"I see...and are these for me?" she asked kindly.

To her surprise, Katerina shook her head. "Papa!" she exclaimed instead, making Elicia blink once before giggling.

_Of course_. Of her two parents, the one she saw the least was her own father, though admittedly not for lack of trying on both parties' ends. As the hands-on King of his nation, Harry spent most of his time travelling around the nation, giving speeches or overseeing construction projects designed to revitalize his nation from the disaster of the Civil War. For the most part, it had worked, and the people loved him for it, but it also unfortunately meant that the time he spent at home was few and far between.

So naturally, he was the parent Katerina wanted to see the most, especially since every time they did get to be together as a family Harry was an incredibly doting father.

She could already imagine the faces of Katerina's future boyfriends once they had to unfortunately meet one of the most dangerous men on the planet. Needless to say, it made her giggle every time she thought about it, much to her husband's consternation.

"I'm sure he'll love them, sweetie," she said with a sincere smile. Harry always loved his daughter's presents. She could give him a particularly shiny rock and he'd treasure it like it was solid platinum.

Not that he didn't appreciate his wife, of course. While their daughter provided a much needed anchor for both of their humanity, they were also both high-ranking members of a nascent nation that had a lot to prove to the world at large. Elicia had already given her husband the tech he needed to make a mechanized army relevant once again, and had effectively reduced the costs of producing electrical energy to near-nothing. With Project VANGUARD, Project MJOLNIR and Project HAVOC, she was sure he'd be in her debt for the rest of his _life_.

Both were game changers for the Northern Sun. While the nascent nation projected an outward image of strength and stability, everyone with a high enough pay grade knew that about half of what was being said was baseless propaganda. Yes, the Northern Sun could defend itself. Yes, it could give many a nation a run for its money in a war.

But could it face down First World armies while on an offensive? No.

Even with Military Mages, the sheer manpower and technological power brought to bear by the powerhouse nations of the world, such as the United States, China, Russia, or France, was overwhelming, and the brass of the Northern military knew while there was a remote chance they could defend their lands against these countries, there was no way they could ever take to the offensive.

Of course, to prevent an invasion, propaganda was rolled out to assure the rest of the world that if threatened, the Northern Sun would reduce their attackers to ash. To ensure as little leakage as possible so that the nations of the world wouldn't call them on their bluff, extreme security measures were undertaken to shield the military from unwanted scrutiny regarding their battlefield readiness.

As Chief Scientist, however, Elicia was tasked with making the propaganda into reality. Since the coronation of her husband, in fact, levelling the odds had been her _only_ task, with all the deviations that implied.

Thirty projects had been enacted since then, and over half had failed. Attempts at supercharging armored vehicles with magic had caused them to explode. Trying to charm armor provided short-term protection, but shorted out anything electrical in the vicinity, whether it used the new magical batteries or not. Magic-enhanced ammunition tended to explode within the weapon barrels themselves, with simulations predicting that 75% of users would've ended up killed by their own weapons after firing a single such bullet.

And the list went on.

It'd been easy for Harry and his military commanders to demand that she provide new weaponry and technology based on hybridization of magic and technology, given her success with Fuel Crystals and the new magical batteries that allowed their electronic equipment work again in the presence of magic. However, they hadn't realized that such successes had been the byproduct of a litany of failures that occurred while developing the technology.

Fortunately, however, her teams had stumbled upon two new great breakthroughs, after many months of relentless toil and research. These new breakthroughs were now codenamed Projects VANGUARD, MJOLNIR and HAVOC.

"Mommy, where's papa?" Katerina asked, still in the arms of her mother, despite her nanny fretting over the fact that the Royal Heir was getting the Queen's clothes dirty.

Elicia blinked as she broke her train of thought, pausing momentarily to regain her wits and then smiled at her daughter. "Papa's helping people," she told her truthfully.

Katerina pouted, another thing that seemed to make the nanny fret. "When's he coming home?"

Elicia sighed. Sometimes, she asked herself the same thing. "Soon, sweetie," she comforted her daughter. "Soon."

* * *

**_France, May 1st, 2013..._**

_ENCYCLOPEDIA GALLICA_

_ — Les émeutes qui ont entouré le défilé du premier mai 2013 ont une fois de plus attiré l'attention sur la scission du Front National et, par là-même, sur sa cause profonde. Depuis la révélation de l'existence des Mages, le parti ultra-nationaliste est dans ce qui ne peut qu'être appelé une guerre civile ayant mis à jour ses deux principaux courants, frappant jusqu'au sein de la famille régnante du parti, les Delacroix. Marion Delacroix, fille du fondateur historique du parti d'extrême droite, a réagi aux violences qui ont touché le défilé en regrettant "des excès de patriotes bien intentionnés mais trop excessifs face à leurs compatriotes". _

_Ayant rapidement adapté la ligne politique de son parti pour inclure les Mages dans les dangers menaçant le mode de vie et les traditions françaises, la dauphine de Jean-François Delacroix s'est retrouvée confrontée non seulement à son ancien camarade politique, mais à son père, qui, peu avant de mourir de causes naturelles, a comparé les Mages à Jeanne d'Arc, en affirmant qu'ils étaient "le rempart du peuple contre une élite manipulée par les intérêts étrangers". Philippe Lachal, numéro deux du parti après la mort de son fondateur, s'est rallié à la bannière de celui-ci, regroupant autour de lui la frange ultra-nationaliste des soutiens du Front National dans un noyau dur, tandis que Marion Delacroix a continué sa doctrine populiste, ajoutant les Mages à une longue liste contenant banquiers, religions non-chrétiennes, autres puissances européennes..._

* * *

**_Paris, France, May 2, 2013..._**

"Wait, hold up. _Joan of Arc_?"

Josefina looked up from her morning paper to see her latest amorous conquest — and coincidentally (not) the accountant of her next target — come out of the bathroom in a towel, looking bemused.

Not for the first time since she'd gotten this assignment, she was glad the man turned out to be a British ex-pat. Granted, he also had one particular trait she wasn't quite fond of...

"Dear god, the _lunacy_ of some people!" the man ranted, throwing up his arms in disgust. "Eulogizing mages! Really! As though those _freaks_ needed further encouragement to screw up our world!"

He was a total bigot.

It was a trait Josefina — known to him only as Emily Lake, naturally — despised, and every time he opened his mouth, it was a chore not to simply run her stiletto blade, handily disguised as a hair pin, through his carotid. Unfortunately, he had the access she needed to her target's accounts, and so he got a pass on death...for now.

Suffice to say, framing him for a murder-suicide of her target was sounding pretty darn appealing with every passing day. Hell, just the thought that she even let him touch her was enough to make her silently ill.

The things she endured for King and Country...

Well, mostly King, but she supposed she was somewhat fond of the Northern Sun as a nation...

"Quite right, dear," she said with a simpering smile that made her internally gag. Gods, she dearly hoped none of her colleagues back home ever found out about this façade she had to endure. With all the bluster she gave about being a strong woman, the last thing she needed was this cover identity hung over her head — fictional or not.

"And the media! Giving these idiots their five minutes of fame!" her lover (soon to be victim #56 if he didn't shut up soon) continued, apparently getting a second wind the moment he heard her agree with him. Josefina discreetly rolled her eyes — why didn't she learn not to encourage buffoons like him?! "Honestly, it's like they want the freaks to get a pass!"

"Apparently Delacroix' daughter disagrees with her late father, darling, so maybe there's hope yet," she offered up, hoping it would shut him up.

No such luck.

"Well, there's a sensible woman! Can't say I much like what she wants to do to us foreigners, but it's still good to see sensible politics regarding the mages getting out there to the public!"

Oh for crying out...! Josefina had to restrain herself from pointing out that much of the destruction that had hit France since the Reveal was non-magical, mostly caused by rioting normals and terrorists. What damage the mages had done to France was mostly in self-defense, not that this idiot would be able to discern that.

Smiling as genuinely as she could muster the effort of doing so, she folded the paper and got up, her loose robe's front apparently all she'd needed to flash for the moron to shut up. Why hadn't she thought of that before?

"As much as I love to hear you talk politics, darling, I do need to get ready; we've got that big meeting to get to, remember?" she purred into his ear as she neared him. Despite how misogynist the idiot was, she'd somehow managed to convince him that a big-time American company was very interested in selling weapons to the French, if it was kept utterly discreet.

Naturally, he was slack-jawed at the act, the feel of her soft skin against his almost enough to make his head explode from excitement. Silently, she prayed dearly that he wouldn't ask for another round of sex — a Casanova, he was not; in any department.

"O-Of course, my dear!" he stammered out, obviously feeling very uncomfortable — likely due to...rising problems. "H-How thoughtless of me!"

She winked and grinned at him before going into the bathroom and slowly shutting the door behind her, giving him one last good look at her rear. He had better of enjoyed it, considering that if all went well, it'd be the last time he had such a good look at it.

Glaring at her reflection — and feeling slightly nauseated by the lengths she'd had to go to get this sort of access to the man's boss — she quickly disrobed and climbed into the shower, doing an efficient job of cleaning herself thoroughly before stepping out while still leaving the shower running.

The man, as she'd discovered upon her first meeting with him a few days ago, had a very set image about women, and one of them was that they were all prone to ridiculous amounts of time showering and getting ready.

Preposterous.

From her time in military encampments under Harry's care, she'd seen female soldiers go through their routines ten times faster than he'd assumed, and when off-duty, they could get fully ready in a quarter of the time.

Still, it helped to play to the man's fantasies. Doing so made him pliable and manipulatable. So while she allowed the shower to continue running, she got dressed, made-up, and then opened the medicine cabinet and took out the back of it.

Good, her kit was still there and untouched.

Oh, call her paranoid if you must, but life as a field agent was all about the little things. Was the room the way she'd left it exactly? Was that throw-pillow a millimeter to the right or left? Was the oven the tiniest bit warm, despite not having used it?

Being able to discern such things were what kept her alive and out of a jail cell, and she wasn't about to rest on her laurels when it came to her own safety.

Opening her bag, she brought out each item inside and checked it and re-checked it. Her pistol, its silencer, her tight suit, her PDA, passports, money reserves...everything was exactly as she'd left them. Good.

Silently, she put everything back in its place, sat on the toilet for a couple more minutes, then reached into the shower and turned it off. Then, humming aloud, she waited another fifteen minutes before deftly touching up her makeup — to make it look recent — and then walked out of the bathroom, smiling coyly at her future coffin-stuff-ee, whose jaw practically fell off.

"Ready to go, darling?" she asked. "We wouldn't want your boss waiting on us, would we?"

The man stammered so much she privately wondered if perhaps she'd broken him. Regardless, it was true that being late would probably end up biting her on the ass, so she laughed cutely, grabbed him by the arm, and then led him out of the apartment.

Not for the first time, she hoped this was all worth it.

...As it turned out, it was.

Hours later, Josefina hummed a little ditty to herself as she eyed the scene of her handiwork.

Her lover, fool that he was, was sitting slack-jawed and with a permanently shocked look on his face on the couch of his boss' living room, a smoldering bullet hole in his left temple. A nice touch, she thought, considering that the gunpowder burns would just feed the whole murder-suicide thing she was planning to frame him for.

And naturally, her target — some wealthy industrialist or another who'd managed to dig a little too close to the truth regarding the group smuggling out persecuted mages from France — who was face down on his luxurious Indian-weaved carpet, fourteen bullet holes allowing blood to stain said carpet in copious amounts.

Still humming, she went over to her former lover and carefully put the gun in his hand, sans the silencer of course, and carefully made sure that his fingerprints would be all over the relevant areas for an open-and-shut case.

The soft chime of the nearby grandfather clock drew her attention to the majestic object. Whatever her target's sins against the Northern Sun, he'd had excellent taste. Pity he'd had to die this way; if only he'd just looked the other way, she wouldn't have had to put fourteen rounds into his body.

Then again, she doubted any man who hired bigots to work for them would be so easily swayed.

Thankfully, the clock also reminded her she was on a time table. While the mansion was devoid of much of its staff for now — due to the rather sensitive nature of the business they were supposed to be talking about — that wouldn't always be the case, and she knew that if the man's guards didn't hear from their boss in the next ten minutes, they'd barge into the room, guns ablaze.

Not that this was much of a problem for her. Rather, it was an excellent way for someone else to discover the scene and make the needed connections.

And then, her cell phone rang.

Well, more like it vibrated. She wasn't about to make the rookie mistake of leaving the ringtone activated mid-assassination. It'd gotten plenty of newbies caught in the act, and it sure as hell wouldn't get her.

Frowning as she recognized the caller ID, she tapped the touch screen's accept button and activated her headset before tucking it back into her suit.

"This is Nightshade," she stated succinctly as she returned to her work.

"_Nightshade, we have a situation. Intel suggests Marion Delacroix, leader of the anti-mage faction of the Front Nationale, may be making a move towards a deal with the government in exchange for her support on anti-mage laws._"

"I know; read the paper this morning," she stated simply. "Not our problem, though. Delacroix may not like mages, but she's way too hardcore for there to be any other common ground with the government for a sustainable alliance to form."

There was silence on the line for a moment as her contact digested this information. "_We will take your observations under notice, Agent Nightshade, however, Spymaster wants to make sure any possible cooperation is and will always be impossible._"

Josefina rolled her eyes as she finished up the crime scene and walked towards the bullet-resistant full-length windows that led out to the gardens. Another show of damned good taste by the man. "With all due respect, HQ, isn't Wolfsbane able to do that? My kill list isn't getting any shorter with all these side gigs."

The answer came in the form of another voice, this one male and very recognizable. "_Nightshade,_" Xeno's voice clearly called to her through the headset. She had to restrain a wince, having not known Xeno would be listening in on the call. "_Wolfsbane is heading up the Operation Ares. You **know** we don't have anyone else in the field with enough experience._"

Josefina sighed, her shoulders slumping, as she reached the balustrade and leaned on it, gazing down at the exquisite yet darkened gardens for a moment. "Understood," she finally said. "Don't worry; Marion'll keep barking, but she'll never bite. Nightshade out."

With that, she clicked off her headset, took a deep breath, then jumped over the railing and disappeared into the gardens, seconds before the door to her target's office burst open, his bodyguards having finally lost their patience after failing to raise their boss long enough.

Another job well done.**  
**

* * *

_**May 17, 2014...**_

_**AUSTRIA DECLARES WAR!**_

_AUSTRIAN FORCES MARCH AGAINST FRANCE!_

_**NORTHERN BROADCASTING CORPORATION (NBC)**__, LONDON — In a rather remarkable turn of events, the Republic of Austria has declared war on the French Republic. In a televised announcement, President Friedrich Junker announced that this heavy decision was made following reports that the court-martial of war criminal General Henri de la Roche ended with a sentence of fifteen years rather than the expected death penalty._

_The surprise turn of events comes at a dark time for the German forces, as French troops begin to consolidate their hold over Bavaria. Nonetheless, with reports already flooding in regarding skirmishes between the Bavarian French forces and the incoming Austrian Army, German spokesmen and sympathizers have begun to express hope once more that the tide may be yet turned._

_Remarkably, little word has arrived from overseas, as the United States and China — the two major superpowers of the world — remain quiet as this European war continues to rage and escalate. Diplomats from both countries have declined to comment on the situation, but have issued statements that indicate their wish for the conflict to be concluded soon and through mediation, not force. _

_Analysts suggest that the reticence shown from both countries to interfere are a sign of deteriorating conditions within these two, as reports filter in regarding conflict between the Central American Union and the United States, and the South Asian Muslim Federation and China. Neither embassy has yet to release statements regarding the recent independence of Sicily, or the growing secession movement within the northern Italian provinces._

_In other news, worldwide economies continue to falter as the price for basic goods and fuels continue to soar, with the basic food basket in some regions averaging out now at around seven hundred U.S. dollars, and fuel prices shooting up to well above seven dollars per gallon. Analysts report that the deteriorating situation in the Middle East and Venezuela, particularly, are to blame for the sudden inflation, though there have been reports to suggest that a secular victory within the Middle Eastern nations would go a long way to stabilize the world economy._

* * *

_**Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun...**_

Joshua honestly wished he was somewhere else today.

As he smiled and shook the hand of the new Sicilian diplomat — a man he swore he'd once seen on the news being arrested for ties to the Mafia — Joshua cursed Harry for pushing this duty onto him. Bad enough that he'd been forced to explain to Klerks why the Northern Sun was building top secret facilities within the Benelux — something he'd only _just_ managed to get them to retroactively approve of, though it didn't earn him brownie points with Klerks or the hard right — but now he was forced to receive the diplomatic delegations from both Sicily _and_ the Northern Alpine Republic — both wannabe nations, if he'd ever heard of one.

In fact, he could barely understand _why_ Harry was adamant on receiving them. The Sicilian Republic was little more than a mafia paradise; its entire economy seemed to run on protection rackets, for goodness' sakes! Even Nightshade, who'd had to travel there to report on their viability as a nation, had returned with nothing but scepticism regarding their shelf life as a country.

And everyone knew she was usually only too happy to back up anything the King said.

The Northern Alpine Republic, for its part, was more adequate as a country, but still Joshua looked down his nose at them. More than a country, its ruling government seemed full of whack jobs who, to him, seemed so far to the right that the right looked like the left. Not to mention that their kind tended to hate mages, so why on earth were they here? Why hadn't Harry just refused recognition?

Joshua felt a little disgruntled. Usually, _he_ was the foreign affairs expert. He knew what shots to call regarding diplomacy and international relations. This time, however, Harry had _insisted_ on receiving the two delegations, even if it meant associating with criminals and far-right bigots.

He wondered. Was this part of some long-term strategy? Did Harry really expect these countries to follow his lead? Just from the brief talk he'd had with both Ambassadors, he knew these men were not to be trusted — hell, he was sure they'd have mounted their own invasion on the Northern Sun if it wasn't for the fact that they _needed_ heavyweight diplomatic recognition right now. Within a year or so, he wouldn't be surprised if both countries sided with their enemies!

Still, maybe there was something going on that Harry wasn't telling him. Wouldn't have been the first time, anyway. Harry liked to screw with people's heads like that.

But even this diplomatic affair was minuscule compared to the shit storm he'd had to deal with earlier today — the Austrian declaration of war. He _knew_ Harry or Xeno was behind that — no doubt the work of the master inciter, Wolfsbane — but neither man seemed to appreciate the sort of diplomatic nightmare it caused him!

After all, the Northern Sun had friendly relations with the Austrian Republic, and now that these friends of theirs had declared war, Joshua had to scramble to assure the European powers that the Northern Sun and its allies (Spain and the Benelux) would remain neutral.

And that wasn't even the worst part of his day.

No, that particularly dubious honor fell to the diplomatic F-U Xeno had dropped on his office in a simple manila folder — Operation RECONQUISTA. The Annexation of Portugal by Spain.

Now how the hell was he supposed to deal with _that_?

There were few ways, if any, in which a modern country could justify the annexation of _anything_. Hell, just moving borders by a couple of miles usually required _years_ of diplomatic battles and third-party mediation! Some disputes never even got solved! And now they wanted him to smooth over the conquest of an entire country with the diplomatic community?!

Even worse was the fact that he couldn't exactly convince Harry and Xeno _not_ to go through with it — green-lighting RECONQUISTA had been a promise made to their Spanish allies in return with their agreement to join the Northern Sun in a pan-European Imperial Federation when the time came.

Joshua sighed mentally as he continued to smile for the cameras. He just hoped the Spanish would at least be subtle about it.

* * *

_**June 30, 2014...**_

_**PATRIOTS HONORED!**_

_MAGES GIVEN HIGHEST CIVILIAN HONORS BY PRESIDENT OF THE FEDERATION!_

_MOSCOW — Mages, once again, have taken the spotlight, as the President of the Federation presided over a lavish ceremony designed to honor the achievements of these gifted individuals in the reconstruction efforts of our country._

_Fifteen particularly distinguished recipients were lined up on the stage as the President spoke of the altruism and patriotism these same had shown in their selfless acts of goodwill towards their fellow countrymen._

"_It is rare enough to find normal men who sacrifice so much of their time and effort for their fellow man," the President spoke, "that it is remarkable when one finds amongst our midst those who, by the simple accident of their birth, have taken upon themselves to use their gifts not for the goal of conquest, but for the benefit of mankind."_

_Once again, Russia appears to be one of the few nations in the world who has not rejected its Mage population, as refugees continue to flow through our borders seeking respite from the Franco-German conflict. A conflict that, with the Butcher of Dusseldorf's recent suspected retaliatory assassination by the fringe group Redemption, has managed to strike further home against these incredible human beings._

* * *

_**Dresden, Germany...**_

"_What_?! _Redemption_ killed that asshat?! What a load of bull!"

"Stow it, Ghost, you know we can't take credit for crap like that," Price chided his subordinate as he rested against the wall next to the only window in the dingy hotel room his team had appropriated. Dresden was firmly in French hands right now, so there was little chance of bombing, though that could change any minute.

In fact, more dangerous was the idea of being found out by the French forces, which was why they'd deliberately picked one of the hotels deepest within French control, where the occupiers assumed they'd already swept through everything.

"Even so, why's _Redemption_ getting the credit for that hit?!" Ghost protested as he threw down the Russian newspaper. "Eagle's the one who put a round through the bastard's head!"

Price shrugged. "Butcher of Dusseldorf, killed by a persecuted mage sympathizer group? Sounds like the perfect story, if you ask me," he noted idly as he continued his surveillance of the streets below. "Who else would've killed him? In Dresden of all places?"

"German Resistance?" offered up Eagle, who really didn't care one way or another about getting credit for the hit.

"They'd never get past the Dresden checkpoints. Makes more sense if Frenchies did it than Germans."

Ghost grumbled as he was forced to concede the point. Still, it pissed him off that the Pucelle would get any credit for this, especially considering the immensely dick move she'd pulled on them by trying to seduce state secrets out of the team.

"I don't like her any more than you do, but she needs the morale victory," Price pointed out, having correctly guessed Ghost's real gripe about the whole thing. "Redemption's been hit hard these past few months. Heard even with our equipment they've been getting cracked down on."

"Serves her right for fucking with our minds, if you ask me."

"She was desperate," Eagle interceded then. "I could understand doing the same, were I in her shoes."

"That's because you're fucking bonked in the head."

"Takes one to know one, Ghost."

Price chuckled. "He's got you there, Ghost."

Again, the SpecOps operative grumbled as he picked up the newspaper and renewed his reading.

"Why do you still read that piece of garbage anyway?" Price asked. "You know it's full of propaganda bullshite."

"Lets me know what the Russkies are thinking," Ghost answered curtly. "Even if it's shite, a good portion who read it will still believe it."

Price snorted. "Ain't that the cold truth," he agreed.

The three-man team was silent for a moment, interrupted only by the sound of Eagle cleaning and checking his rifle, before Ghost began grumbling audibly again.

"What now?" Price sighed.

"When's our next op?" Ghost asked impatiently.

"When Command's damn well ready to tell us!" Price snapped.

"The fucker's been dead for three days! How much more time do they need?!"

"Better not let Nightshade or Wolfsbane hear you're dissing the rate they find targets for us, Ghost," Eagle cautioned. "I hear they don't really appreciate being hurried."

Price laughed as Ghost paled. Their team, Kilo-One, was one of the few people who all knew the identities of both Nightshade and Wolfsbane, the former of which had been an informal pupil of theirs while they'd still been members of the SAS on tour in Spain. Wolfsbane's contact with Kilo-One, by contrast, had been much more recent, and suffice to say that when Ghost had questioned Wolfsbane's methods to his face, the man had _not_ appreciated the uneducated criticism.

Thinking of Nightshade actually got Price to remember those days when he knew her as still just a young girl, trying to survive the horrifying war in Spain. He recalled how she'd been known to simply shut herself in within the confines of her caretaker's tent. Some of the men had actually believed for a while that she was nothing but a camp legend — something the army boys had cooked up to gossip about and relieve the boredom of besieging a city. When she'd actually shown up, Price had been as surprised as everyone else at the sight of this traumatized girl essentially walking around unchecked throughout the camp.

Hell, he was even more surprised when she'd asked them to train her. Naturally, he'd refused, but hinted at the idea that she could perhaps _watch_ them train, and in so doing know what she ought to be doing.

A part of him regretted having taught her anything. She was young enough to be his daughter, and he'd put her in the line of fire permanently by telling her how to get strong enough to warrant catching the future King's eye. She should've been able to enjoy a life of peace after the trauma she went through, but instead she was now one of the Northern Sun's deadliest spies.

"Can't believe that little waif is all grown up now," Ghost spoke aloud then, apparently having mirrored his thoughts. "Remember when she was this tiny little thing, all scared?" he asked, raising his hand to where he estimated her height had been at the time.

Eagle shrugged. "She made her choice," he stated simply.

"Some choice," Price snorted. "Could've sent her to see a doc, maybe shipped her off to Canada or something. Instead, we taught her how to fight...how to kill..."

"Ever regret it, boss?" Ghost asked calmly, raising his eyes to the roof as he thought back to those days.

"No," Price lied. "She wanted to do her duty; we merely gave her the tools to do it."

It was pure rationalizing, and he knew it, and so did his team. Yet, that small little lie helped them all sleep better that night.

* * *

_**September 10, 2014...**_

_**THE RUSSIAN HAMMER RISES!**_

_HEROIC MAGES TAKE THE PLEDGE OF SERVICE FOR THE MOTHERLAND!_

_MOSCOW — After decades of second-rate status, Russians can once again feel pride in their nation as the persecuted of Europe that were welcomed in our embrace now repay that kindness by taking the oath to serve and defend our country!_

_Today, even as French attempts to goad the Germans into surrender fail, five hundred of the vilified magic users welcomed in almost none of Europe were inducted into our Armed Forces by none other than the President himself, in a show of wholesale support for these beleaguered people._

_The new unit, named Hammer, will never be used for anything but the defense of the nation, the President assured in a subsequent conference. "While the Northern Sun flung their mages into a costly war for the sake of revenge and the Germans used them as cannon fodder, let our mages be assured that the only duty we require of them is the duty of any patriot — the defense of the homeland."_

_Already, the people of Russia have had much to be thankful for to our newly discovered brethren. Unlike the shameful persecution of mages throughout Europe, the discovery of magic here in Russia has brought nothing but a boon to our nation, wracked as it was with conflict and economic disaster. Like heroes from legends past, these fellow patriots quickly put themselves to the service of the nation, helping with reconstruction, economic development, and security. However, this is the first time the mages have been inducted into our Armed Forces as a group._

* * *

_**Fort Drake, Kingdom of the Northern Sun...**_

Escalation.

It was the eternal history of conflict.

When one side created bullets, the other created anti-ballistic vests. The other then produced armor-piercing rounds, and then were countered with armor-piercing proof materials. And so on.

And in the spirit of that eternal tug-of-war contest, the Russians had upped the ante with their newest unit: the Mage Special Forces, codenamed HAMMER.

For a brief moment, Hughes wondered if perhaps said designation was a callback to the Soviet Union's glory days, before an unsustainable economic system had plunged the country into economic, and subsequently political, ruin.

More than likely.

If nothing else, the propaganda machine the Kremlin had geared up for the event was certainly spouting thinly-veiled threats and insults at the Northern Sun, reminding them that while they recognized the Northern Sun's ambition to ascend as a major player, they weren't about to let them take the Russian's supposed birthright.

A shame, since Hughes had planned to push for closer diplomatic ties with Russia. Now, however, any such deal would be obviously for show while the two nations began an arms race to see who would pick up the pieces of Europe, once the French and Germans were done with their manufactured squabble.

Of course, that being said, Hughes was banking on the Northern Sun's ability to put its money where its mouth was. That was the reason for his presence at Fort Drake, in fact.

Unlike most military facilities under media blackout, Fort Drake was unique in that the security measures employed here made all others look merely cautious. Redefining paranoia, Fort Drake was one of the most top secret military installations the Northern military had built since its inception, and its _sole_ mandate was the development of weapons and military technology designed to tip the scales firmly towards the Northern Sun.

Naturally, the Queen had been assigned as the _de jure_ head of the compound, though control of it remained firmly within military hands. And while the Queen devoted herself to pushing the boundaries of civilian technology for the benefit of the Northern people, her research was promptly coopted by the other research teams at Fort Drake for use in military applications.

Only three military projects had the Queen's direct involvement, and all three were projects he had a huge stake in: VANGUARD, MJOLNIR, and HAVOC.

But of all three, HAVOC was the one he was here to see.

Horribly aware that their military lacked raw manpower to compete with any of the European powers, especially following the devastating Civil War and all previous and subsequent conflicts, the military had turned desperate for an answer to balance the scales. The answer was found in HAVOC.

A theory postulated by a biochemist and genetics expert colleague of the Queen, one Doctor Jeremiah Ansen, Project HAVOC was innovative in the sense that where some of their colleagues had suggested cloning as a form of quickly bringing up numbers, Ansen and the Queen had rejected that by pointing out that Northern supremacy wouldn't be assured by quantity, but by quality.

HAVOC intended to deliver on the latter.

While the term "super-soldier" had been freely used to describe the program, neither Ansen nor the Queen approved of it, remarking simply that at best, the program was basically genetic manipulation of adults — a remarkably dangerous thing to do on a large scale, due in no small part to the dangers of cascading genetic failure and rejection due to unknown inter-genetic dynamics.

A problem magic had helped solve, albeit conditionally.

Not for the first time, Hughes was amazed at the radically new options that arose once magic was applied to a problem.

With the use of magic and some chemical solutions created with the use of magical flora, it was possible not just to put a patient in complete stasis, but also keep them alive in the event of a localized genetic failure. In such a situation, magic would keep the patient alive and well while the eggheads basically undid their work and tried again in another fashion.

Hughes couldn't even remember how many lives were saved from a gruesome death thanks to this method.

And now, thanks to all the money and effort poured into Project HAVOC, he would get to be one of the first people in the world to see an actual _success_.

Waiting patiently behind the several-centimetres thick bullet-proof glass that separated the observation room from the test area, Hughes ignored his fellow observers — all proxy observers for his colleagues at the very top of the military food chain — as he waited for the tests to begin.

Five minutes later, the chatter died down as a side door to the test area slid open and the very recognizable figures of the Queen and Doctor Ansen walked in, donned in their lab coats. Both had headsets on, designed to transmit only to the observation room.

"_Good morning,_" she greeted her unknown watchers, given that, as Hughes expected, the glass was polarized on the outside to prevent anyone in the test area recognizing observers. "_As you all know, Project HAVOC is a military-funded program designed to bridge the gap of military capability that our nation suffers vis-a-vis the other powers of the world. To that end, HAVOC has striven to not simply place a bandage on the problem by increasing numbers, but rather give our troops, current and future, the ability to single-handedly increase their battlefield capabilities and in so doing even the odds. Doctor Ansen?_" she prompted.

The older man nodded gratefully, reaching up to tap his transmitter on. "_Thank you, Your Majesty. As my colleague has explained, the question of the path the Northern Sun ought to take in bridging this gap has been fundamentally reduced to a simple question: quality or quantity?_" he summed up. "_It is the belief of HAVOC that a single man, given the right tools, training, and physical abilities, can cause as much or more damage than an entire squad. Typically, this has been the result of individual examples of incredibly resourceful people within our ranks, but Project HAVOC poses this question: what if the individual examples could be turned routine? And what if the new routine gave birth to a whole new level of individual achievement?_"

Hughes nodded along with the explanation. So far, everything panned out with what he expected of the program. Like Ansen and the Queen, in a rare moment of joint agreement between the two leaders of the opposing political factions in the Royal Court, Hughes rejected the premise of quantity over quality. The Northern Sun, in his opinion, had been the dream of the few, and the triumph of the few over the uneducated majority. When the Civil War broke out, the Northern forces had never held the numerical advantage, instead relying on individual heroism and ingenuity to balance the odds. HAVOC would simply be one more step in that philosophical direction.

"_And so, with this question in mind, we posed another: what could we improve that would yield the greatest results?_" Ansen posed. "_Weapons? Technology never ceases to evolve, so in the long term, such a focus would be inadequate. Training? While certain dogmatic beliefs in physical conditioning could be reworked for better yields, the limits of the human body would not shift. So naturally, when we eliminated the impractical, the remaining option, no matter how ludicrously unethical or dangerous, was the most logical: the human body._"

The Queen did well to hide a barely noticeable grimace, but Hughes caught it. As with the FCE plants being coopted to develop the new electrical batteries she'd produced for military gain first and foremost, she obviously had ethical qualms about her work in HAVOC. Still, to her credit, she remained in charge of it, having probably realized that a world in which her infant daughter was safe from foreign enemies would undoubtedly require her to make sure the Northern Sun became effectively untouchable.

"_And to do so_," she took over. "_Doctor Ansen and I looked into the genetic makeup of humanity. We are, as you all know, the sum of our genes, plus our experiences. While we cannot change the latter, we __**could**__ change the former, and the precedent has been established in historical moments of genetic screening and selective breeding._"

Just saying those words seemed to sicken her, by the looks of it. No doubt because in a different time, her daughter would've been labeled a freak for being the offspring of a mage and a non-mage. Only in the Northern Sun and few other places would she be given anywhere near the sort of respect and adoration she received now. "_The problem was mitigating the dangers of genetic manipulation within adults. This was a problem solved by the insertion of magic into the equation."_

"_With the help of a stasis charm, we were able to keep patients indefinitely under the knife, with every genetic permutation we caused logged into computer simulations and observed, both in real time. With this, we were able to observe any sort of problems immediately, and were able to mitigate any sort of negative repercussions."_

"_The cost of it is, however, the large amounts of specialists needed for a single alteration procedure_," Ansen cut in. "_Approximately thirty-five staff members are required on hand at all times to monitor and alter the genetic makeup of the patient, and the entire procedure takes more than fourteen hours, requiring seven two-hour shifts __**at minimum**__to handle the one operation._"

Hughes felt a little disappointment with that. This meant that while HAVOC _could_ be applied to the entire armed forces, it was unlikely that such a thing would happen quickly due to the exhaustive needs of each procedure. More than likely, it would take numerous years to get through every soldier.

"_However, the results are wildly successful in their aim_," the Queen cut in then, realizing that perhaps this wasn't what the observers wanted to hear. "_Test subjects that have undergone this regimen have been recorded as having greater muscle density, increased aerobic capacity, lower heart rest rates, increased performance in mental chronometry, slight improvement in memorization and reasoning skills, and highly improved physical coordination._"

Hughes whistled softly. If that was true, then it meant the soldiers under Project HAVOC would be the ultimate endurance athletes, coupled with the potential of making great field officers and excellent marksmen. Exactly the sort of men and women they would need in the coming conflict. Especially if VANGUARD and MJOLNIR panned out.

However, while he did expect VANGUARD and MJOLNIR to give the Northern Sun an edge, he was very much aware that it would be a temporary one, at best. Both projects _could_, in theory, be replicated, and if history was anything to go by, there was a greater than not likelihood that their enemies would eventually develop the same technologies over the course of the war.

HAVOC, however, was different. This was not a project one could just duplicate willy-nilly. Even if their enemies did manage to deduce its workings, it would take _years_ for it to be remotely viable in a form that could hurt the Northern Sun to the point where it was game changing.

That's why it was, to his mind, the most important of the three main projects on his list.

By the time he was finished musing, however, the Queen and Ansen had finished with their explanation of the procedure, and were now motioning for someone just beyond his line of sight to come into the room. The test subject, no doubt.

When said person showed up, Hughes felt his spirits soar and his mouth turn into a feral grin. This was _it_. One of those moments where he could _feel_ their fortunes changing.

_This_ would determine Northern supremacy for ages to come!

* * *

_**December 4, 2014...**_

_**MUNICH FALLS!**_

_PEACE TALKS BREAK DOWN AS AUSTRO-GERMAN FORCES LOSE METROPOLIS_

_**NBC**__, LONDON — Shocking news today, as recent peace talks to end the two-year war between Germany and France broke down amidst reports that the German metropolis of Munich has fallen to its French besiegers, finally costing the Austro-German alliance an important bastion in conquered Bavaria and dealing a costly blow to morale._

_Deemed a more decisive defeat than even the famed Battles of Hohenzollern, the Siege of Munich, the last Austro-German bastion in Bavaria has had the eyes of the world riveted upon it, with analysts on both sides predicting victory for their own factions. People will remember that Munich was the site of the defiant Oktoberfest celebrations by the Austro-German defenders earlier this year, when defending forces taunted the French forces with the celebration of their traditional October festival._

_Since the fall of Munich, Alliance spokesmen have levelled charges of deception and betrayal towards the French, who had concluded a tentative truce with the allied forces following months of heavy fighting caused by the sudden entry of the Republic of Austria into the fray earlier this year. As a result, peace talks have now been called off, and hostilities have resumed all across the German country._

_In other news, reports from our correspondents in Moscow reveal that Russian military capability has seen dramatic improvement over the past year, with analysts declaring the Russian Armed Forces to be at about Soviet-era strength. The news has caused market prices to fluctuate due to speculation of a possible Russian entry into the French-Allied conflict._

_Here in the Northern Sun, diplomatic envoys from the newly formed Northern Alpine Republic have officially broken ground in Liverpool today at the site of their new embassy along Embassy Row. The site is located next to that of its strategic ally, the Sicilian Republic. While public opinion remains divided regarding the official recognition of these two states, a recent poll indicates a majority opinion of "wait and see."_

_In American news, President Rockwell has formalized a declaration of war against the Central American Union following repeated attacks against mage communities on United States soil across the Rio Grande. The Kingdom of Canada, as a result, has declared itself neutral in the conflict, refusing to aid either side citing the lack of attempt for diplomatic reconciliation._

_In Asia, Premier Zhang Jin Tao has issued a state of emergency following numerous attacks from the South Asian Muslim Federation against its coastline. Following the edict, Premier Zhang ordered the granting of aid to all SAMF-based rebels who seek to bring down the theocratic government of the Federation and has mobilized the entire People's Liberation Army for war._

_In economic news, markets went through a moderately good day as news arrived of secular victories throughout the Middle East. Correspondents report that the youth movements in countries like Jordan, Israel, Turkey, and Egypt have had a tremendous effect on secular successes in toppling the dominant theocratic factions and in liberating captured mages. The news served to buoy global markets, though analysts report that traders will remain cautious until these successes are firmly established._

* * *

_**Fort Independence, Kingdom of the Northern Sun...**_

The war was ending.

Harry could feel it in his bones. Just like at Sagunto, he could feel the world changing. Munich might have galvanized the Allied forces to resist the French a little longer, but there was no denying it — the French would win that war.

Well, that suited him just fine.

While the French may have thought that the fall of Munich would give them greater leverage for the inevitable peace talks, they still failed to realize that their current boon was a future mistake of cataclysmic proportions. For every day they wasted fighting the Germans, it gave the Northern Sun that much more time to prepare for its own war, and progress had been kind to the nascent nation.

Flitting to and fro throughout his country, Harry had supervised, yelled at, and overseen the massive construction projects his government had ordered. While much of it was financed through loans, they'd been able to repay a decent chunk of it already with the money that taxes were bringing in, especially since people now had a decent chunk of their income given back to them following the nationalization of the FCE power plants, which cost ridiculously low to run, courtesy of streamlining efforts by the eggheads at Fort Drake.

No, if anything worried him, it was the Russians.

Having been the victims of one of his plots to destabilize Europe, Harry was surprised to see how quickly the Russians had rallied and stabilized themselves — even going so far as to integrate the mages with as much speed and diligence as the Northern Sun had!

He remembered feeling a chill when he read about the Mage Special Forces being established, and the recent news regarding their military capabilities worried him. The French, he could take. Germans and Italians too. But the Russians? That was a wildcard.

On the one hand, Project HAVOC was coming along nicely, and a decent chunk of his army was now benefitting from the procedure. VANGUARD and MJOLNIR, too, were finally being implemented, though their effects would have to be observed in live combat, rather than through simulations.

Even so, he felt doubt consume him regarding the viability of his army vis-a-vis the Russians. Many just dismissed them as cold weather hicks, but Harry knew from his education in history that Russians were capable of incredible insight and tactical ingenuity. Where the rest of the Allied forces during World War II had been slow to reach Berlin, it had been the Russians who'd essentially launched a vengeful Blitzkrieg of their own to conquer their hated enemy's capital. The lesson was simple: don't underestimate the Russians. No matter how haggard they might seem.

Nonetheless, Harry felt a measure of self-confidence as he walked down the files of troopers who stood at attention before him, there for an official inspection. His troopers were almost to a man veterans of several wars, and now had the added benefit of enjoying the boons of Project HAVOC. On the outside, Harry could see little difference in these men, but their test scores had been through the roof. Each man was the equal of twelve French soldiers, and they still had the Military Mages to count on for heavy duty support.

Oh, how he wished he could be there to lead them to victory on the field!

It was a point of never ending contention between him and his advisors. Harry was born for combat, for battlefield leadership. Yet he knew that as the King, and with an underage heir, he could _not_ rationally be put in the line of fire. Speirs and Curtis had nearly shit a brick upon finding out his desire, and had recruited his entire family and former colleagues to dissuade him. In the end, they won that argument, though it did nothing to ease his primal urge to fight alongside his men once more.

"Very impressive, Colonel," he praised as he reached the end of this particular group of soldiers and went on to the next. The man next to him saluted crisply.

"Thank you, Your Majesty!"

Harry nodded once and put the man out of his thoughts. He didn't know the Colonel personally, which somehow bothered him. Back when the Northern Sun was still just a dream, he'd known every officer who served under him. Now, they were just strangers he was entrusting his men to, and that didn't sit well with him. The only thing keeping him from taking action, however, was the knowledge that the Generals in charge of every army he had ready was someone he knew personally — a point he'd insisted on. While he couldn't very well micromanage the army to the level of personnel changes, he _could_ impose his will regarding the highest-ranked officers in each detachment.

_None_ of his detachments would leave the Northern Sun unless it was placed under the command of a man or woman he implicitly trusted.

To that end, he had Neville brought back from liaising with Redemption, recalled Humboldt and Swift from operations in Northern Ireland, and had Wood transferred back down to the Northern Sun from the Occupied Territories. In short, his finest generals would spearhead the attack on France. Only one army remained leaderless, though more as a result of lack of candidates than anything. This one army he kept in reserve for now, as already the very thought of deploying four armies against the French was considered overkill, especially once the Spanish-led offensive began.

He smiled as he thought of his Spanish allies. For the first time since they'd first met in person in the ruins of Sagunto, he and General Ruíz-Perez, the bane of his existence, would be cooperating in a simultaneous attack on the French Republic. Even better, within France itself, Redemption had managed to organize the various rebel factions under its banner and were ready to launch a massive uprising.

In short, everything was going according to plan.

* * *

_**March 20, 1015...**_

_**PEACE!**_

_Treaty of Hohenzollern Signed! Germany Surrenders!_

_**NBC**__, LONDON — Three years, one month, and four days after the French Republic first declared war on the German Federation and over two hundred thousand total dead including civilians), Europe knows peace once more as both parties announced today that the final version of the Treaty of Hohenzollern has been signed._

_Reactions, differ, however, regarding the contents of the Treaty. As per its provisions, French military occupation will continue indefinitely within Saarland and parts of Baden-Württemberg, all German Military Mages will be discharged and placed under arrest, and compulsory Mage registration, to be overseen by French authorities, will take place immediately. Along with this are French demands for reparations, which the German Federation must comply with within fifteen years._

_Austria, for its part, is being let off relatively scot-free. According to analysts, the French Republic, not wanting to potentially instigate another phase to the war following threats from the Northern Alpine Republic to intervene (known in Germany and Austria as the Miracle of Augsburg), has decided to merely demand minor reparations, to be paid over a period of twenty years._

_The news of peace between these European nations arrives at a critical time for global relations, as reports continue to come in of rapid Russian militarization and economic stabilization, and of the ongoing conflict between the United States and the Central American Union, and the Sino-SAMF War._

_In Southern Europe, Spanish-Portuguese talks at unification have also reached their final stretch, as both nations agree to a political union following years of instability in the smaller Iberian nation. The Writ of Union signed by these two sovereign states is to take full effect beginning a month from now, with full integration expected to be finalized by this time next year. Analysts have voiced some scepticism at this target date, however, claiming that the language barrier will likely push back full integration until 2017._

* * *

_**Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun...**_

Katerina giggled as her father twirled her around in the air. The rambunctious two year old was thoroughly enjoying her father's return to the capital by effectively hounding him every minute of every day so he'd spend time with her — something Harry suspected Elicia had not just approved of, but possibly instigated.

Not that he complained — Katerina was just _adorable_!

"Again, papa, again!" she exclaimed, taking no notice that Harry was actually getting a little tired from doing it so many times. Well, dizzy too.

Off to the side in the living room, Harry spied Elicia muffling a giggle as she watched her husband try to muster the energy to keep up with Katerina's demands.

"You know, you could take over," he mentioned as he took a deep breath to restore some of his vitality. All the while, Katerina kept tugging at his pants, keeping up her demands for "again, again!"

Elicia smiled knowingly. "And what do you think I do when you're on your trips? Turnaround is fair play, love," she told him without any bite.

Sighing, Harry straightened up, stretched his muscles, and then picked up his squealing daughter, ready for another round of "helicopter."

Good grief, had he really gotten this soft over the years?

Well, okay, maybe that was unfair. Harry knew he was still in top form, thanks to a regular routine of exercise, a healthy diet, and continuous practice of his magical skills. Hell, he could still wipe the floor with Neville, who although more magically powerful, still couldn't hope to broach the substantial experience gap that existed between the two of them. And if he could beat Neville, he knew he could beat any other Military Mage under his command.

Probably could've given Dumbledore a run for his money, too.

However, he knew this wouldn't last. As the new war loomed in the none-too-far distance, Harry knew he'd probably be overcome by the newest generations of Military Mages by the time the conflict was over. Such was the fate of a modern Warrior-King. Politics forbade him from setting foot in an active war zone, so the most he could do for his men this time around was coordinate with the generals in real time from a bunker underneath Liverpool and dictate overall strategy. Everything else would depend on their own efforts.

"Papa! Did you like the flowers I give you?" Katerina asked as they finished the latest round of "helicopter."

Harry smiled at his daughter as he squatted down so he could level his gaze with hers. "I did, sweetheart, I loved the flowers you _gave _me" he assured her, correcting her grammar. "I have them in my office all the time!"

Katerina squealed with joy and hugged her father, melting the ruthless leader's heart instantly. As much as he sent Josefina and Wolfsbane across the continent to tear things apart, he always felt that ruthless steel give way to compassion and love whenever he was with his family.

"Your Majesties, Lady Isabella is here," Cecilia announced softly, still more than a little intimidated by the King, after he'd nearly sentenced her to death two years ago.

"Auntie Izzie!" Katerina exclaimed before rushing out as fast as her tiny legs allowed her to.

Harry laughed softly as he simply plopped down on his arse, relieved to finally get a break from all the playing his daughter had asked for.

On her couch, Elicia giggled at the sight of her husband being so drained. "Fought three wars, toppled a nation, and created a new country, and yet you _still_ can't handle that little bundle of energy," she teased as she bookmarked the page she was on and closed her book.

"I'm getting old," Harry mock complained. "Good grief, was I ever _that_ hyper as a child?"

"I have it on good authority that you were, big brother," Isabella answered as she walked into the living room, her niece in her arms, giggling madly. "My, you _have_ grown big, haven't you?"

"Just like Mama!"

That elicited a burst of giggling from Elicia and Isabella, who both knew that Harry was pretty much screwed on that end. Despite all his power and ability, he never managed to grow taller than 1.6 meters, making him about as tall as his mother had been.

Elicia, however, held a few inches over her husband, so naturally Katerina would use her as a measuring stick.

"Yeah, yeah," Harry grouched, having heard this particular joke more than a few times since Katerina had first learned to talk. "Make fun of the short guy..."

Elicia shook her head with a smile before getting up from the couch and kneeling next to him to give him a light kiss on the temple. "We still love you, dearie, no matter how short you are."

Harry smiled at his wife before standing up and helping her up in turn. "Well, as fun as it ought to be with you here, Izzie, duty calls, I'm afraid," he stated. He turned to Elicia. "Ready to go?"

Elicia nodded before going to her daughter and hugging her tightly. "You be good with Auntie Izzie, alright?" she told her. "Mama and papa need to go out for bit, but we'll be right back."

Katerina's face scrunched in a pout, and already both parents could see the tearworks beginning to rev up as their daughter got ready to protest their leave.

Harry quickly tried to preempt it by coming over and also hugging his daughter. "Tell you what, sweetie," he coaxed her. "When we get back, how about we invite over grandda and grandma and have a big dinner with all of us?"

Katerina, however, was not so easily deceived. Still a little upset at her parents leaving, she nonetheless nodded quietly at the offer and turned to give her aunt a big hug, her face buried in Izzie's clothes.

Exchanging disappointed glances of their own, Elicia and Harry moved back and gave Isabella their silent thanks for babysitting Katerina while they were away. While the nanny could've done just fine, they knew that unless family was present, Katerina would be inconsolable.

Offering his arm to Elicia, Harry mouthed a silent thank you to his sister before closing his eyes, concentrating, and Disapparating with his wife, leaving Isabella alone with Katerina.

The only daughter of the Potters sighed as she felt her niece tremble ever so slightly in her arms. Sometimes she wondered if maybe they should've all just moved to Canada and let the world go its own way.

* * *

_**Fort Drake, Kingdom of the Northern Sun...**_

A soft, almost imperceptible popping sound heralded the arrival of the two sovereigns of the Northern Sun at the arrival zone within Fort Drake. Already, guards and their liaison were waiting for them, but suddenly found themselves greatly uncomfortable once they realized the two were already in a rather personal conversation.

"I just really hate leaving her alone all the time!" Elicia told her husband, who merely nodded with a sigh.

"I know, and I do too, Ellie, but we _have_ to be here," he assured his wife, taking little notice of the people present. "It's for her future. We'll make it up to her, I swear."

"It's not about making it up to her, Harry, it's about never having to in the first place!" she chided him. "When was the last time we had a vacation as a family? Huh?"

Harry sighed as they walked out of the arrival area, followed by the silently uncomfortable guards and liaison, still engrossed in their conversation. "I'll talk to Sirius about it, I promise. We'll go to Brighton Beach. How about that?"

"You _know_ your daughter likes the countryside more than the beach, Harry."

"Then Wales."

Elicia frowned at her husband. Was he just trying to offer up places to make her shut up about this? She doubted it, personally. She could see the concern behind his cool expression, so she let it slide.

The two monarchs walked the rest of the way in silence before Elicia excused herself and went through a door that said "PROJECT ATHENA — WARNING: TECHNICIANS ONLY."

Silently, Harry looked at the door for a moment before sighing and continuing his trek down the metal hallways, deep beneath the ground, as security demanded. His escort, too, was completely silent, not really sure what to make of the marital squabble they'd just seen, but preferring to remain quiet over it rather than tempt the infamous Hellfire's wrath.

Eventually, however, they reached a small observation room, where Harry softly greeted Hughes, Speirs, Sirius, and Curtis, who were already all waiting and seated.

"Sirius," he addressed his adopted uncle, "remind me to talk to you about giving Ellie and I a vacation after this is over."

The Prime Minister of the Northern Sun widened his eyes in surprise at the request, but then smiled and nodded. "Of course, Harry," he agreed without question.

Hughes, for his part, had that insufferable knowing smirk on his face, though Harry could discern more than a hint of irritation in his eyes.

"Still mad over MJOLNIR, Albert?" he asked.

The Chief Strategist of the Northern Sun harrumphed in response, answering his King's query.

Project MJOLNIR had been hard to categorize, following its demonstration and results. In simulations, it was a resounding success, but once attempted in real life, the device tended to malfunction and break down. As his wife explained it, the MJOLNIR weapon simply demanded too many simultaneous calculations for even a highly trained team to handle. Even when the idea of automating the process via computers came up and was indeed tried out, the computers tended to overheat and crash. Simply put, the perfect coordination and extraordinary creative calibration needs of the weapon system required such linked coordination between all moving parts that not a single computer or person in the world could provide.

Meaning it was useless.

To say Hughes had been disappointed was the mildest of understatements. As ecstatic as the man had been at the results of Project HAVOC, he had been hoping to combine the results of the two projects to make the Northern Sun's military forces virtually invincible.

Yet, like the rest of those present in the observation room, they had been called here by the Queen as a result of an apparent breakthrough in one of the minor projects, Project ATHENA, named after the Greek Goddess of Just War, Wisdom, and Innovation, among others, who was said to have sprung from the head of her father Zeus fully formed.

He didn't quite know why — that project had never really drawn his attention. Mostly due to the fact that unlike MJOLNIR and HAVOC, much of the required parts for ATHENA depended on magic. Sure, VANGUARD was in the same boat, but at least VANGUARD had direct military uses.

The sound of a door sliding across the observation window caught the attention of the attendees, and into the room walked not the Queen, first, but rather what seemed to be a witch in white, custom-made laboratory robes. In fact, as the scientists walked in, the Queen was last in arriving, and given the custom of Fort Drake, that meant her contribution to the project had been the smallest.

"_Welcome, ladies and gentlemen_!" the witch announced with a happy smile. "_Allow me to introduce myself — I am Project Director Padma Patil,_" she introduced herself. "_And this is my team, Scientists Dawlish, Avery, Barrymore, Neilson, and of course, our chief consultant and advisor, Her Majesty Queen Elicia._"

"She seems perky," Curtis noted. "Wish I had that sort of energy at her age."

"Who're you kidding, Elizabeth?" Speirs snorted. "At her age, you were already kicking ass and taking names for years!"

"Touché."

Harry, Sirius, and Hughes chuckled at the comment, but their presenter was blissfully unaware of the events happening behind the polarized glass. All she could do was carry on with the hopes that they were paying attention.

The Indian woman, still going through mostly unnecessary details regarding the team's qualifications, finally arrived at the summary of the Project.

"_Project ATHENA arose from a memory that I, and others in the team, share of our time amongst Wizarding society,_" she explained as she paced in a ovoid path. "_That is to say, magical portraits. How did they work? What made these painted images...alive, for lack of a better word? They remembered things, reasoned, and had what seemed to be emotion, yet there was no brain to fire off the synapses needed for any of that to happen!_"

"_Not only that, but any painting could, with the knowledge of another such painting, travel between frames! How?_" she pressed, while her team nodded sagely. Elicia, poor her, merely kept quiet as Patil spoke of matters she truly could only observe, not actually experience. "_It was inconceivable, and yet, these intelligences existed, so there had to be a way!_"

"_And so my colleagues and I began an amateur research project into the question while still at Hogwarts,_" she recalled. "_We studied the paintings, attempted to coax the truth out of them, and even applied different stimuli to elicit different reactions!_"

"She _does_ realize she's talking about studying paintings, right?" Speirs asked sceptically.

"Don't worry, she's not crazy. Those things really do exist," Sirius assured the military man.

Still unaware of the running commentary, Patil continued. "_And then, when the Ministry fell and the Northern Sun gave us a chance to continue our work, it took another dimension!_" she stated, before halting before the glass and widening her arms. "_What if we could replicate it in machines?_"

That got her audience's full attention.

"Whoa, hold on," Curtis spoke up quickly. "Is she implying what I _think_ she's implying?"

"_A.I._" Patil smiled widely. "_Artificial Intelligence. Ever since we crossed over to the Northern Sun, we knew that we had in our hands what could very well be the key to achieving this holy grail of technology!_"

"Holy _shite_!" Speirs breathed.

"She _is_!" Curtis added in.

Harry, for his part, managed to keep his cool, though there was a savage smirk forming on his face. So that was it. That's what had been so important Elicia and he had been forced to cancel their day together with Katerina. As much as he loved his daughter, he had to admit that perhaps it'd been worth it.

Hughes, for his part, looked like he could cry of joy. Without realizing it, these eggheads had perhaps delivered unto him the very means of not only revolutionizing technology forever, but also making MJOLNIR viable!

Of the group, however, Sirius was the most cautious regarding the news. As much as he could understand the huge leap forward this would mean, there was a damn good reason why so much literary fiction dealt with the issue of rampant A.I.s. Mostly, they seemed to want to kill all humans after a while.

Before their eyes, Patil motioned for Dawlish to move to the door and press a big red button. Almost immediately, a hissing noise permeated the room as a small, cubic pillar rose from the ground, its head dominated by what seemed to be a projector.

And, out of Patil's coat, came a small, transparently metallic cube.

"_It took exactly seven hundred, sixty-two trials, but eventually our team was able to create a container made of a Fuel Crystal alloy specifically designed to store information the same way a hard drive would!_" she announced proudly as she held it up for her observers to see. "_And into this container, which we know is capable of withstanding magical energy, we poured in the magic needed to animate a painting._"

Dropping the cube to the level of the projector, she casually inserted it on the backside of the pillar. "_Six hundred, fifty-seven trials later, we found the perfect balance between magic and machine, giving us the following result._"

The projector blared to life then, shortly before a small, yet definitely egg-like shape materialized, data streams racing along its surface.

"_Activating...powering up creative algorithms...Boot complete_," a distinctly synthetic female voice announced within the testing chamber. "_Greetings. I am Artificial Intelligence Construct Nevada Sierra Dash Zero, Zero, Zero, One, Codenamed ATHENA._"

"Magnificent," Hughes breathed as he watched the birth of the first _actual_ A.I. in human history.

"_Athena, as we call her, is not just a massively intelligent construct, capable of basic tasks like multitasking numerous weapon systems_," she stated, unaware that this almost made Hughes squeal like an excited schoolgirl as his dream project, MJOLNIR, was being breathed new life into. "_She is intuitive and adaptive, and capable of creative thinking on a limited basis._"

With that, she turned and another projector, this one on the roof, provided a detailed statistical report on her performance. "_Of seventy five chess games we provided her, Athena was able to maintain a win-defeat record of 46-10-24, usually utilizing her defeats to change her strategy algorithms and adapt to the changing game styles. In addition, when given a word problem, she is quick to identify key factors and rationalize an answer._"

As the observers nodded along with the information being replicated in the individual data pads they were each provided with, Patil continued.

"_However, this incredible cognitive ability comes at a price_," she stated somberly, unknowingly perking the attention of her audience. "_Despite the compatibility of the storage cube and the magic involved, extended use will wear down both quickly. Our estimates show that constant, heavy-duty use would burn out an A.I. core within two years._"

She was about to move on when Elicia coughed softly, catching Patil's eye. The observers watched as Elicia mouthed "heavy duty" to her, causing Patil to blush. "_Err...right. And by heavy duty, we mean sustained use in controlling multi-system weapon platforms or entire vehicles, such as tanks and the like_," she elaborated. "_As of right now, the construct cannot even sustain the total workload of maintaining and directing the smallest frigate in our navy, nor a single airplane. At best, these A.I.s should be used only for mission-critical purposes or for data processing and analysis._"

Just like that, Hughes deflated quite a bit, causing Harry to give a brief smile as he watched his friend's hopes get lowered back to reality.

"_In addition_," Dawlish then spoke up, having sighed already at the fact that Patil was so excited about the results that she continued to gloss over other findings. "_These constructs are, as of yet, unable to perform any electronic warfare. The sheer data load of the A.I., in addition to its magical nature, will simply result in the mutual destruction of the target system and the construct._"

"_A flaw we hope to fix in the future!_" Patil assured her unknown viewers. She was understandably worried. If the people who were invited to these viewings did not like what they heard, all funding to the project could be cut to nothing in a matter of seconds.

There was a moment of silence in both rooms before Elicia, sighing, took centre stage. While Patil and Dawlish had done well, she knew there was one way of effectively sealing the deal. Standing behind the pillar, she put her hands in her pockets and looked down at the A.I. construct being projected.

"_Athena,_" she spoke calmly. "_Identify your priorities._"

The oval that was the construct spun around, though all that meant was that the data streams seemed different than before. Otherwise, no one would've been the wiser that it had even moved. "_Request acknowledged. Artifical Intelligence Construct Nevada Sierra Dash Zero, Zero, Zero, One Priority List as follows: First, to defend and uphold the integrity and peoples of the Kingdom of the Northern Sun from enemies without and within. Second, to prioritize the safety of military personnel of the Northern Sun during combat engagements against hostile forces. Third, to respect the laws of the Northern Sun during the provision of analyses regarding domestic strife. Fourth, to advise, not act, unless ordered otherwise. Priority list complete._" Athena announced before rolling back to the way she'd been before.

Elicia nodded and kept her gaze on the polarized window, while Patil and her team glowed with pride. "_These protocols have been hardwired. The A.I. cannot interface with __**any**__ electronic equipment compatible with it without authorization of a ranking member of the military or Parliament._" she announced.

Then, to clinch the deal, she looked down at the orb. "_Athena. What is your purpose?_"

This time, the construct remained still, while its data streams glowed softly. "_I am the shield of the Northern Sun, and all its people. I am its spear._"

A brief five seconds later, a green light turned on over the polarized glass, indicating the unanimous approval of the observers.

* * *

_**Post-AN:** Okay. Here's the down-low._

_1. MJOLNIR: **NOT** Power Armor. Let's get that one straight. If you haven't picked up from the hints already, it's a multi-system weapon platform that while capable of causing lots of damage, is next to impossible to deploy without the use of an A.I. Construct. Which brings me to..._

_2. ATHENA: **NOT** Cortana from Halo. While I admit to reading a few Halo fics recently, I'd like to reiterate the severe drawbacks of the Athena-class A.I.s. First, they have a lifespan of 2 years if under heavy duty use. Secondly, they are incapable of coordinating and directing anything bigger than a tank, and even a tank is pushing it. Third, they are unable to hack enemy systems due to the fact that as mix of magic and technology, there's no system in the world outside of the Northern Sun and its allies that could handle that mix. Fourth, it is still an infant-stage A.I. This is basically what our own real society would hope to achieve at its most basic level. Cortana-level A.I.s would take decades, if not centuries of constant research to develop. And let's face it, by using the animation spells for magical paintings, Patil and her team cheated._

_3. OMIGODWHY Overpowered Northern Sun: **No**. I don't think they're overpowered. What HAVOC, MJOLNIR, ATHENA, and VANGUARD all provide are edges for the Northern Sun against the French. HAVOC gives them better individual troops. MJOLNIR brings the fire. ATHENA analyzes patterns. VANGUARD deploys everything. However, other than HAVOC, none of the other advantages they gain are Northern Sun exclusive. Given captured tech or espionage, MJOLNIR, ATHENA, and VANGUARD could all be reproduced by their enemies. What these projects are for is to show how this new nation fights - high tech, overwhelming power, magical/technological innovation, and subterfuge. Eventually, other nations will begin copying them, **because that's what we humans do.**_

_Anyway, one more Time Skip chapter to go, and then the war begins! Woo! *cries*_

_My fingers are going to huuuurt._


	24. Time Skip: Forward Unto Dawn

_**AN: **First of all: Happy Holidays to all of you! You've been a wonderful audience, and you've yet to kill me, so that's two points in your favour! Yay!_

_Also: I'm insane. If anything, this chapter's sheer length (90 pages on GoogleDocs, 36,614 words) ought to prove that._

_BUT MARQUIS, Y U NOT SPLIT THE CHAPTER, I hear some of you ask._

_Because I said one chapter left, and damn it, one chapter it is! :|_

_Anyway, yes, this chapter, Forward Unto Dawn, is the last timeskip chapter. From here on out, it's the European War._

_Also, get it? SUNRISE? Dawn? HURHURIMCLEVER! :B_

_Cheers,_

_-MB_

* * *

_**June 13, 2015...**_

_**SCANDAL OR CONSPIRACY THEORY?**_

_FISHERMEN CLAIM NORTHERN NAVY TESTING NEW WEAPONRY_

_**NBC**__, GIBRALTAR — In what Ministry of Defence representatives are dismissing as wild conspiracy-mongering, five Portuguese high-seas fishermen have come forth claiming to have witnessed a fleet of ships massing a few miles outside traditional shipping lanes for what they claim to have been experimental weaponry testing._

_When pressed upon for further details, however, the fishermen were unable to quantify what specific weaponry the ships were testing, why they were outside traditional shipping lanes themselves to begin with, or that the ships were indeed part of the Northern Navy._

_Regarding this last point, lifelong fisherman Adolfo Silva defended himself and colleagues saying, "Everyone knows the Northerners are rebuilding their navy. Who else would have so many ships?"_

_Ministry of Defence officials, for their part, have dismissed the claims, pointing out that no naval detachments were scheduled to be in the described area; that the MoD has nothing to hide in regards to its weapons development programs; and that the Northern Navy has the right to conduct training exercises in any international waters, in the event that the lack of record was simply a mistake._

"_Conspiracy mongers will always enjoy claiming that countries are building weapons and preparing for war," Minister Elizabeth Curtis stated in a press release. "But Europe has already gone through one war. Who would be mad enough to start another?"_

* * *

_**HMS Forward Unto Dawn, Atlantic Ocean...**_

"Iris, report."

Near where Admiral of the Fleet Amalia West stood in the command deck of the newly-refitted and renamed Aircraft Carrier _HMS Forward Unto Dawn_, an equally recently-installed projector shone to life as a small orb holographically emerged.

"_Scans are clear, Admiral West,_" the synthetic female voice answered, the only changing feature of the orb being its data streams glowing slightly every time the A.I. spoke. "_No foreign vessels detected in the quadrant._"

Admiral West nodded, grey strands of hair accidentally slipping out from under her cap. She ignored them and proceeded to her next query. "And above? Any spy satellites I should be aware of?"

There was a pause as the A.I. processed her query. "_I have conferred with A.I. Samson, Admiral — no satellites reported with a view to our quadrant._" Samson being, of course, the Air Force's HQ A.I. As powerful data crunchers as they were, Amalia had been informed that these A.I.s were still rather primitive, in the sense that their overall capabilities had severe limits.

Some of which merely existed as purely precautionary measures, should the A.I.s turn rogue — for which no evidence existed, but didn't mean couldn't happen.

Either way, Amalia nodded, glad for the A.I.s. Unlike actual people, A.I.s required no sleep and could keep an eye on the radar, sonar, and communications systems 24/7 without ever "missing" anything due to human error.

At first, it'd been sort of a hassle, since Iris tended to report _everything_. Every minor blip on the radar and sonar had the A.I. scrambling to report. Every glitch in the comm system or every spike of radio interference had the A.I. interrupting whatever she'd been doing — sometimes even popping up in her quarters while she slept.

But after a while, she'd gotten used to it, and had the A.I. deviate her reports on the glitches to the chief engineers.

No, if anyone was more than a little miffed at the A.I.s, it was the people said construct replaced or just made obsolete. With Iris now basically in charge of radar, sonar, and communications, this meant that the crew needed for these stations could be reduced to a bare minimum, with the few left being there only in case Iris was needed in some other tasks outside of her current parameters.

In fact, within the newly reconstituted Navy, more than half of the ships had voted to keep the A.I.s out. While they couldn't very well ban A.I.s from entering Naval service, the Ministry of Defense _did_ grant permission to every non-MJOLNIR-equipped ship or flagship to opt out.

About ¾ of those ships did so.

In fact, Amalia herself had been _very_ sceptical about using the constructs, despite assurances from the Ministry. General Curtis herself, a woman Amalia deeply respected and now Minister of Defence, had been forced to come and talk her into it.

In hindsight, she was glad she'd been convinced.

While the lack of human operators for communications, sonar, and radar systems still troubled her and a few of her crewmen, the crew of the _HMS Forward Unto Dawn_ had adapted well to the new circumstances. Similar reports had come in from the other ships who'd been outfitted with A.I.s, though the non-fitted ships remained adamant in their refusal to hand over any of their functions to the constructs.

Good thing these A.I.s weren't programmed to feel anger or indignation, in her opinion. Otherwise, who knows when the machine revolution would've started!

Either way, the A.I.s had another benefit in her opinion — the revitalization of the Navy. While the United Kingdom had always maintained a strong navy due to its issues with Argentina and the ever-present spectre of war looming over Europe, much of it had been either decommissioned following the end of the Anglo-Spanish War, or had been sunk in the subsequent Civil War. The late Admiral Williams, the hero who'd sunk the Spanish fleet off the coast of France in a daring move, had also been a victim of the Civil War.

With these A.I.s and MJOLNIR coming into service, however, the government had quickly issued orders for the total commissioning of six aircraft carriers (bringing up the total to seven and one of which was the _Dawn_), a dozen destroyers, and five battleships.

That last order had been a major controversy, however. Battleships were widely thought to be obsolete, despite the rising tensions on the continent. Simply put, between the UK and France, very few other navies in Europe would have the capacity to field something like a battleship that would survive for long in an open conflict. Furthermore, as the Navy slowly moved away from the Mahan theory of absolute maritime control, battleships, which were designed to basically hold their ground and serve as the mainstay of a local fleet, no longer became necessary. Meanwhile, the UK and France had shifted their focus towards sea-based air power and localized sea control and as such, the need for such ships slowly lost ground.

The MoD, however, was adamant. They wanted five new battleships on the water with the new MJOLNIR systems as their main armament. That surprised many in the Navy's brass, including Amalia, who would've sworn from Liverpool to London that MJOLNIR had been developed for the Army boys.

Not that the Navy complained, however. Any new toys to try out was just fine with them! In fact, it was the very reason for which her fleet was currently out at sea.

"Iris," she addressed the A.I. "Please relay to all ships that the training exercise is to begin in ten minutes."

"_Of course, Admiral._"

She then turned to her XO, Captain Nicholas Stark, and nodded. "Captain, man battle stations."

The man saluted and with a short, "Aye, aye, admiral!" turned to the intercom and activated it. "This is the XO; all hands to general quarters!"

Without a single second passing by, the room became flooded with strobing red lights as the _Dawn's_ crew rushed to battle stations. Satisfied by the quick reaction time of her XO and the crew on the bridge, she proceeded to the next phase of the test.

"Iris, hand over control of radar, sonar, and communications to the crew and rev up the MJOLNIR system," she ordered. "XO, advise radar, sonar, and communication crews to stand by for imminent switch."

"Aye, aye, admiral!"

The orb spun a bit before glowing. "_Acknowledged, Admiral. Control of all sensor systems and communications relegated back to the crew. Starting up MJOLNIR weapon systems._"

Looking out the window — and passingly aware that the rest of her crew on the bridge was doing the same — Amalia watched with some well-concealed awe as five ports opened up along the edge of the flight deck, revealing deceptively (and comparatively) small turret emplacements, each easily sporting a five meters long barrel.

"Doesn't look like much," she heard Stark note.

"Appearances can be deceptive," Amalia noted, causing her XO to flush in embarrassment at having been caught speaking out of turn. "Iris, status on the MJOLNIR weapon systems."

There was a pause as the orb glowed. "_MJOLNIR Magnetically Accelerated Cannons at 75% readiness, admiral. Estimated time of readiness: T minus 30 seconds._"

A two-and-a-half minutes start-up time. Not a good thing to have in a pitched confrontation — which, granted, as a carrier the _Dawn_ should never have to go through if she or whoever commanded the ship didn't forget that carriers were meant first and foremost for long-range air support, not direct confrontation.

"XO," she spoke up, making Stark go to rigid attention. "Status on target ships," she ordered briskly.

Stark turned to the radar station and walked over, leaning over the station officer to check the readouts. A whispered conversation between the two soon led to Stark looking towards the admiral. "Target ships on station, thirty klicks northeast of our position, the closest is bearing 052 degrees, admiral."

Amalia nodded and turned her attention back on the open seas. Thirty klicks, was it? She couldn't see anything in the distance with her naked eye, but then that was to be expected. Even with open seas and perfect weather, thirty klicks even with high-grade binoculars would be downright impossible to spot.

"Isis, target the first ship," she ordered. "Order each battleship to call out a single target in succession, then make ready to fire on my mark."

"_Affirmative, Admiral; relaying orders now...__Targeting...,_" the synthetic voice announced. "_Target acquired. Firing solution ready on demand, Admiral_. _Other vessels have relayed similar readiness, Admiral._"

"Fire Gun One." Sure, firing all of them would've had this over quicker, but might as well see what one gun could do before unleashing a volley like some 19th century swashbuckler.

"_Firing._"

As soon as the A.I. announced it, the ship rocked violently, despite its enormous mass. Amalia, taken by complete surprise, had to be caught by Stark before she fell back on her ass, and more than few of those on the bridge had been ejected violently from their seats.

"What the bloody — what the hell was _that_?!" she snapped at Iris, thinking that the A.I. had somehow interpreted her order to include every single one of the experimental guns. "I said Gun One, Iris!" Had the A.I. malfunctioned or misheard her? If so, that was a pretty damn big design flaw!

"_Confirmed_, _Admiral_," Isis responded in her usual monotone. "_Only MJOLNIR MAC Gun One was fired. Guns Two through Five are still in standby._"

Disbelieving, Amalia went to the window and looked down — as Iris had said, only one of the guns was smoking, its barrel practically glowing red from the sheer heat produced by the test fire. That was a problem. With a glow that bright, it could easily mean the whole damn thing would melt down within a few shots.

"Admiral!" her XO called out to her from the communications outlet. "CiC reports the target is gone!"

She turned on her heel. "What do you mean, gone?" she asked, already conjuring up an image of what something being propelled at the force she'd just felt would look like.

Stark was silent, mouthing...nothing, it seemed, before shrugging. "Just...gone. There's nothing there."

"Get visual confirmation!" Amalia snapped. "I want eyes on that target!"

"Aye, aye, admiral!" Stark acknowledged before relaying the order to communications.

For her part, Amalia felt herself shaking, the sudden force of the gun's firing still shaking her up quite a bit. What would've happened if she'd ordered _all five_ to be fired, like she'd initially planned? Good lord, what about the other ships?!

"And someone get me a status on the rest of the fleet!" she roared suddenly, having realized that as much as _her_ ship had shaken, it could've been _much_ worse on any of the smaller vessels.

"Admiral," one the crewmen called to her. "Sick bay reports over a dozen injuries to crewmen! Mostly minor, with a few concussions!"

Well, that eased her fears somewhat. At least no one had been foolish enough to stand near something sharp or deadly when the gun was fired.

"Send teams along the ship to scour for anyone who might've lost consciousness," she ordered. "Make sure everyone's accounted for!"

"Aye, aye, admiral!"

"Admiral!" Stark called out. She turned to see her XO look a little relieved. "Report from the rest of the fleet — no major damages to any ship or casualties, but the _Anderson_'s test fire seems to have ripped the gun right out of its emplacement. Shoddy welding work, it seems."

Amalia nodded, pleased with the news — though not so pleased with the _Anderson's_ accident. _Someone_ was going to have their day ruined. "And kill confirmation?"

Stark repeated the query through the comm before looking up. "Confirmed. No trace of _any_ target except the Anderson's. According to visual observers, the round annihilated it. It sunk within seconds."

Amalia's eyes widened, and a ghost of a smile formed upon her face.

Maybe these guns wouldn't be so bad after all...

* * *

_**July 1st, 2015...**_

_**NEW POWER PLANTS UNVEILED IN OCCUPIED TERRITORIES**_

_GOVERNMENT KEEPS PROMISE TO RESETTLE LOST SCOTTISH TERRITORIES_

_**NBC**__, LIVERPOOL — In a press conference this morning, the Minister of the Masses, His Grace the Duke James of Oxford, father of His Majesty the King, announced that pursuant to the government's pledge of assistance in the reconstruction and resettlement of the lost Scottish territories, that two new Fuel Crystal Energy Reactors would be inaugurated later this month._

_The two new power plants, known officially simply as FCE Installation 08 and 09, are predicted not only to power all of the newly re-acquired territories, but also any future expansions, within reason._

"_This is to prove that the government which you elected is not all talk," His Grace spoke firmly at the press conference. "And that it values it citizenry as much as a father loves his own child. We hope now that the naysayers in Parliament will cease merely attempting to block any new attempts at accelerating reconstruction and start coming to the negotiating table on the more pressing issues."_

_Opposition parties, however, have been quick to denounce the unveiling of the two new power plants as a simple propaganda ploy._

"_If the government is so intent on cross-aisle support," spoke Jim Morrison, MP for Christchurch and Leader of the Opposition, in reference to the Duke of Oxford's announcement, "then one would wonder why it seems to considers the definition of negotiation as doing what they tell you to do."_

* * *

_**Fort Drake, Kingdom of the Northern Sun...**_

"Athena, could you get me the results on Project MJOLNIR's field test?" asked Elicia as she read through the testimonies of the crew of the _HMS Forward Unto Dawn_ who'd seen the actual firing of the weapon.

"_Of course, Doctor. Processing query now._"

Elicia allowed a small smile to grace her features as she heard the A.I. finally accede to her request to call her by her degree, not her official title. Hearing "Your Majesty" all the time was frankly exhausting to her, and she liked it much better when instead of being associated to a title she'd only earned by marrying the King, they called her by her hard-earned degree.

"_I have the results, Doctor. Should I put it on the screen?"_ asked the A.I.

"Yes, please," Elicia answered, turning around to watch her digital board come alive with technical data relating to the test fire. As expected, the actual impact force of the slug had been enormous — a clear win there. Furthermore, with the aid of Iris and the other A.I.s outfitted in the new battleships, each test fire had gone off without a technical hitch — again, as expected.

What worried her, however, was the enormous kickback and power consumption of the weapon system. Even with smaller FCE reactors outfitted into the ships, the MJOLNIR weapon systems were so energy inefficient that if the _Dawn_ had fired all five guns, she had little doubts that the reactor would've gone offline while it tried to cool down.

And a ship without power in these modern times might as well be a sitting duck.

"_I am detecting that your vital signs seem to be experiencing some changes, Doctor. Shall I inform the infirmary?_"

Athena's synthesized voice cut through her musings. Blinking as she tried to process what the A.I. had said, she chuckled and shook her head. "No need, Athena. I'm just experiencing some stress. Thank you for the concern."

"_Of course, Doctor. His Majesty was quite insistent that I see to all your needs._"

Ah yes. Harry's birthday present, so to speak.

After having seen Athena's first run, Harry had declared the first A.I. prototype hers. At the time, she'd thought the gesture a tad silly, since Athena had been built for the purpose of crunching and analyzing military data and using the MJOLNIR system, but after having used her since then, she was glad for it.

It was like having a personal assistant who needed no sleep or sustenance.

Coming back to the data presented on the digital whiteboard, she puckered her lips and tapped them with her index finger pensively. Where was there room for better energy efficiency? The magnets themselves needed to be supercharged, so that was off the table. The deployment system was already working at minimum power capacity, so that wasn't it, either.

"Athena, please bring up the schematics to the MJOLNIR system."

"_Right away, Doctor._"

As the plans replaced the data, she went over every part with a careful, critical eye. While she'd been an intrinsic part of this project, she had to admit that the prototype they'd developed and which was subsequently field tested by the _Dawn_ was perhaps not the finest iteration of MJOLNIR possible. For one thing, as Admiral West had insinuated, they needed to find a way to integrate the MJOLNIR cannons such that they could be fitted three to a turret, as the Navy ships were used to having.

"Athena, please simulate the following," she spoke up. "Decrease amount of magnetic coils around the barrel by one fourth, but increase power to remaining coils by exactly the same. Check for changes in power drainage and impact force."

"_Calculating..._" Athena responded. "_Simulation run. According to my calculations, Doctor, the total power used by MJOLNIR would remain about the same, but the impact force would decrease._"

"Damnit," she cursed, biting a nail. A bad habit, true, but it was better than what her husband did — incinerate something. "Revert changes to current model. Identify power usage per part."

"_Calculating...results acquired,_" announced Athena, before listing off the _exact_ power usage of every part of the weapon. "_...in addition, Doctor, I have found that a great deal of the power used for the magnets is being lost in the form of heat._"

"How much?" she asked.

"_Roughly one quarter at the moment, Doctor. However, as power increases, the rate of energy lost is increased proportionately._"

That was a problem. But, unlike cutting power usage from the other parts of the canon, it was a _solvable_ problem. All she needed to do was find a way to minimize heat generation.

"Run a simulation, Athena," she ordered as she started writing down the formulas she was seeing in her mind's eye. "Encase the magnetic coils with a coolant agent."

"_Running simulation...results remain the same, Doctor._"

"Not enough?"

"_Correct, Doctor. The enormous power needed for the MJOLNIR system would either flash boil the coolant agent, or ignore it altogether._"

Elicia winced. If the coolant was sealed in with the electric conductors, that meant the casing would probably explode in a violent fuel-coolant interaction. And if anyone was nearby, it could result in massive injuries and/or death.

Damn. What else could she use? She'd have to stick quite a bit of coolant into the system if she wanted to keep it stable, with the coolants currently available. What about liquid nitrogen, however?

"Athena, replace test coolant with liquid nitrogen," she ordered. "Then run the simulation again."

"_Understood, Doctor. Running simulation..._"

As she waited for the A.I. to finish, Elicia went back to her desk and ran some calculations of her own regarding another project she had in mind — upgrading Athena and her sister A.I.s While the constructs had performed admirably within their limits, Elicia wanted to push those limits further, perhaps even extend their lifespan.

The problem was that even Harry was being edgy about doing so. And she couldn't blame him — if a single A.I. construct was captured by the enemy and could reverse-engineer them, it could spell disaster for the Northern Sun as they already were. However, if she made them even _more_ versatile...good grief, the amount of damage they could cause would be incalculable!

Well, it didn't matter, because either way she couldn't find a way to improve on the A.I. system by herself; too much of it had to do with computer programming, and she frankly sucked at that.

"_Doctor, I have finished simulations._"

Elicia jerked her head up from her scribbles and smiled. "Thank you, Athena. Result?"

"_The change in coolant has indeed managed to drop energy loss. However, the heat generated by the MJOLNIR system will require constant addition of liquid nitrogen to maintain optimal temperature. There is, as of yet, nothing to suggest that the runic component of the gun is affected by the addition of the coolant. In addition, the recoil effect has not yet been reduced._"

Elicia sighed. She figured as much. Still, better to pay for the extra LN2 than to let the FCE reactors go offline. The recoil still needed fixing, true, but at least the guns wouldn't melt in a few shots. "Athena, please add into the log that we still need to revise recoil systems and three-gun integration."

"_Understood, Doctor. The log has been updated._" the A.I.'s robotic voice confirmed. Elicia smiled as she felt some satisfaction in ameliorating the MJOLNIR weapon's heating and energy drain problem. Without the solution, it was a very real risk that the ships' cores would overload if pushed too hard.

And at least now they'd get to fire off volley after volley without risking their ships.

* * *

_**July 31, 2015...**_

_**RUSSIAN MAGES CRUSH REBELLION**_

_CHECHEN UPRISING BROUGHT TO ITS KNEES_

_**NBC**__, MOSCOW — In a breaking announcement last night, the Russian President, addressing the hastily gathered representatives of local and national news agencies, reported the extermination of an entire rebel insurrection within the Chechen territories._

_According to the President, the Chechen rebellion, which had plagued the Russian Federation for the past year, was designated to be the trial ground for their Hammer Corps, also known as the Russian Military Mages. While no reporters have been allowed near the zone of engagement, what few descriptions of the area that have leaked seem to suggest that the entire rebellious area was effectively wiped off the face of the map._

_Addressing concerns that the mages may have been __**too**__ brutal in the completion of their mission, the President assured reporters that the Hammer Corps allowed all civilians to evacuate the area before beginning their assault, as their rules of engagement demanded. Those who stayed within the confines of the areas assaulted were thus considered to be rebels._

_Despite the victory, many European nations have come out to denounce the move, with France leading the charge with Foreign Minister Jean Didier calling it a clear example of why mages ought to be shackled. Other nations, such as the Northern Sun, were quick to denounce the victory for its unnecessary brutality, but rejected the idea that this was somehow the fault of the mages' inherent nature._

"_While some quarters would like us to believe that letting loose all mages would inevitably result in another Chechnya," said His Grace, the Duke of Warwick, Minister of Foreign Affairs for the Northern Sun, "the vast majority of us, I think, are rational enough to understand that soldiers simply carry out the orders given to them by their superiors."_

* * *

_**Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun...**_

The actions of Russia, while publicly acknowledged in a much more reserved tone, was far from lightly taken in the confines of the halls of power of the Northern Sun.

"This is an outrage!" Speirs steamed as he slammed a fist into the mahogany table. "It's like they're _calling us out_!"

"That's exactly what they're doing, Speirs," Curtis stated curtly, not one to mince words amongst friends. "The more we pay attention to their doings, however, the more they'll do to incite us into a conflict."

"Any reason for this, Xeno?" asked Sirius, who looked, unlike the military arm of this meeting, quite unhappy with the idea of a Russian-Northern War.

The Director of the Special Intelligence Service shook his head. "As far as we can tell, the Russian leadership has simply been much more discerning as to the potential of the mages than our continental neighbours," he stated simply. "While the initial shock and disgust _did_ happen, I believe that a coordinated effort between the Kremlin and the local authorities allowed for a quick reversal of public opinion."

"You _believe_?" stressed Sirius, disbelievingly. "Are you or are you not the Director of the SIS?"

"Contrary to popular opinion, Sirius, the SIS isn't omniscient. We have to gather information just like everyone else," Xeno answered in a clipped tone. He particularly resented the idea of having his competency or the competency of his subordinates questioned.

"That's irrelevant right now," Joshua stated as calmly as he could — and considering the way the Russians were acting, he was essentially pushing against his own panic reflex. "What we need to figure out is our strategy. How do we react against this provocation? Operation SUNRISE is already beyond the point of no return. We can't afford another war while we're just getting started with France."

"As much as I hate to admit it, I'm with the Foreign Office on this," growled Speirs as he leaned forward to gaze at Harry, who sat at the head of the table, like always. "Project HAVOC's put the fire back into the men's bellies, but it'd be suicide to go up against the Russians with such inferior numbers."

"What do you suggest?" Harry asked calmly, knowing that if anyone had to be the voice of calm and reason here right now, it had to be him; no matter _how_ shaken he was by the Russians' actions. Yes, he'd envisioned the possibility of a conflict with them, but he hadn't counted on such a rapid rally. Apparently his once-effective strategy of alienating mages in foreign countries had, in this one case, backfired catastrophically.

"I say we green-light Operation SUCKERPUNCH," the Field Marshal proposed. "Knock out everything that could ever be used against us."

"Are you _mad?!_ SUCKERPUNCH is a last resort, Speirs!" Joshua protested immediately. "The moment we use it, we alienate every nation in the world!"

"Agreed. There's no way the benefits of SUCKERPUNCH outweigh the drawbacks at this stage," Sirius concurred. "If the foreign nations knew we even still _have _the technology..." he shivered. "There'd be a global coalition levied against us in a matter of hours."

"And that's why the op should be green-lit!" Speirs counter-argued. "Who's to say the world _won't_ rally against us to begin with?! Operation SUNRISE will already break nearly every precedent and tacit agreement in the world!"

"Perhaps, but there's no need to _ensure_ that we have the world at our doorstep!" Joshua snapped before turning to Harry. "Your Majesty, SUCKERPUNCH isn't worth it. Not yet, anyway. If, and I stress this greatly, _if_ SUCKERPUNCH is given consideration, then let it fester for a while until we can gauge the reaction of the world during Operation SUNRISE. If it's unnecessary to move forward with SUCKERPUNCH, then we disable it. If the threat of global retaliation becomes true, we activate it."

It was a reasonable compromise, but everyone saw that Speirs wasn't quite happy with it. While not an extremist in the least, Speirs had nonetheless grown to suspect virtually every nation out there currently not under the mantle of the Northern Sun to be of suspect loyalty. When the Austrians had joined the Franco-German War, for instance, their decision had inflamed him, due in no small part to the fact that they'd claimed to embrace the same neutrality as the Northern Sun. Entering the war, in his eyes, made them unreliable traitors.

Which, in hindsight, might've seemed extremist, but as far as Speirs was concerned, was not. It was an odd duality, but it seemed to work for the Field Marshal.

"I agree with Joshua," James spoke up then. "There's no sense in preemptively alienating the world. Especially when we've already seen the effects of a similar situation in our own lands. The associated death toll would make allying with us at any point in the future absolutely impossible."

"Not to mention force the Benelux and Spanish from dissolving ties," chimed in William, who'd recently returned from another foray to Spain to help smooth over the annexation of Portugal with the public. "Spain's new government is eager to be in our good graces due in no small part to the fact that we left the country _relatively_ intact and helped with reconstruction following the war, but initiating SUCKERPUNCH would eliminate any feelings of gratitude we still have. And the Benelux would _never_ agree to associate itself with the operation."

"Having them even tacitly agree to SUNRISE has been enough of a bother," Joshua concurred.

"Xeno?" Harry asked calmly.

The Director of the SIS coughed a bit before clearing his throat and answering. "The Foreign Office is right on this one," he stated simply. "SUCKERPUNCH was never designed to be a first-resort operation. Even our simulations have essentially stated that initiating it would lead to massive backlashes against the Northern Sun in its last-resort situation. To start off SUNRISE with it would be a terrible idea."

Harry nodded, having accepted the viewpoints from the relative parties. A few more voices had remained silent during the debate, due in no small part to the fact that their ministries and/or responsibilities had no official stake in the upcoming war or with Operation SUCKERPUNCH.

"Understood," he spoke solemnly. "In that case, we are putting SUCKERPUNCH on the backburner for now. However, in that case, I want new ideas for dealing with the Russians' use of military mages."

And once again, the room burst into discussion.

* * *

_**August 7, 2015...**_

_**FRENCH ARMS DEAL FALLS THROUGH!**_

_TURKISH AUTHORITIES CLAIM THEY WERE LIED TO BY FRENCH COMPANIES_

_**NBC**__, ISTANBUL — In a sudden and bizarre turn of events, the highly anticipated and publicized Turkish purchase of multi-million dollars worth of French-manufactured military-grade equipment has been called off amidst claims by Turkish officials that the French manufacturers were issuing fraudulent information in their sales pitch._

_The scandal breaks at a particularly sensitive time for the French Republic, as the victorious nation continues to attempt a smooth transition back to a non-militarized economy. This deal, reporters were assured last week, was meant to highlight the strong French economy, unbowed and unstrained by the war._

_Yet, as Turkish officials have claimed, this appears to have been a mirage, allegedly fabricated by the government in an attempt to hide a sagging economy. Several pieces of documentary evidence proffered by the Turkish government seems to validate the claim, though French authorities continue to deny their veracity — accusing, in fact, that these documents are forgeries, no doubt fabricated by the terrorist/freedom fighting group Redemption, which has been known for its slew of anti-government activities before, during, and after the war._

_The news of the deal's cancellation has shot strong shockwaves through the European economy, as speculators reacted negatively to the news. Stock prices for French manufacturing firms have begun a steady decline, which financial analysts assure will not come to an end soon. Former French allies in Luxembourg, Monaco, and North Africa have even been reported as considering moves to distance themselves from the sagging French economy by moving corporations and factories to more economically stable nations, such as the Northern Sun._

* * *

_**Istanbul, Turkey...**_

"As you asked, _bayan_," the Turkish official slid an official looking manila folder on the table towards a smiling Josefina. "The deal has been called off. My superiors suspect we have been cheated."

Josefina gladly took the manila file, making sure her hijab stayed in place. While she knew she wasn't legally _required_ to wear it, Josefina had taken a liking to the otherwise stifling headscarf when it allowed her to lose a tail she'd been certain had been following her for a while. French Intelligence, no doubt.

Plus, it made the religious men here a bit more pliable if they thought she was respecting their traditions. More the fool them, really.

Opening the folder, she slid out only the first few inches of the documents therein before smiling at the contents and then sliding them back inside. Putting the folder within the folds of her garments, she then picked up a suitcase from beside her seat and put it on the coffee table between her and her contact.

"Your payment, counsel," she announced with a radiant smile. "Just as we agreed."

The man looked at her suspiciously — hijab or not, no one trusted _anyone_ who negotiated backdoor deals to sabotage international relations. She could've been an angel from the Divine Himself, and she doubted the man would've trusted her.

To be fair, though, the mistrust went both ways.

Flicking open the clasps, the man paused just before opening the suitcase to look up to her — no doubt wondering if she booby-trapped the case to make sure there were no loose ends. All she did, however, was smile at him. For a minute, he sat there, maintaining eye contact, beads of sweat accumulating on his forehead, such that Josefina wondered if perhaps he would turn down the payment.

Or maybe he'd sold her out?

Nah. Unlikely. This man was a hell of a coward, and the fact that he _knew_ she had guns pointed at his brother's unknowing family was enough of an incentive to have him cooperate. He'd open the case. She was sure of it.

And as she predicted, he did. Apparently finding the courage within himself to take the leap of faith that she wasn't screwing him over, the man opened the suitcase and smiled as he saw the money lying there. Stack upon stack of American dollar bills greeted him like a lifeline to a shipwrecked sailor. With this money, he could now possibly smuggle his brother's family out of Turkey, which was quickly losing control of the southern provinces — something the purchase of the French weapons could have potentially solved.

"I must admit, I had my doubts, _bayan_," he told her with some relief as he continued inspecting the money, almost as though he was trying to convince himself this was real. "I would've thought your kind would be much more...final with the end of this kind of transaction."

Josefina smiled. "Suitcase bombs aren't my thing, Fayad," she assured him, causing him to look up from the suitcase just before Josefina put a round through his head with her silenced pistol. "Guns are a much better way to make sure a man's dead."

Getting up, she refastened the clasps of the suitcase before taking it in hand and walking out the house, where another contact of hers was waiting, leaning against the wall next to the door. The man, of Arab complexion and a rather nasty looking scar over his right eye, didn't even give her a glance as she came out — good, just as he'd been trained.

Setting down the case, she put some touches on her hijab. "It's done," she told him without making eye contact, using a casual move to fix her clothes to slip him the murder weapon. "Get rid of any evidence I was here."

The man made no sound, merely an inconspicuous nod. Pushing himself off the wall, he walked away for a few meters before cupping his mouth and shouting in Turkish, "_A traitor lives here! One of the devil worshipping supporters makes him home amongst the faithful! Death to the infidel!_"

Smiling as she walked away, certain he would make sure she got away smoothly, she heard as a flash mob gathered and soon stormed the house of the offending official. The subsequent series of gunshots made her smile grow as she knew her operative had put several more rounds in the official to disguise the motive for the murder.

Within minutes, she could smell the smoke caused by the fire that the mob had started to "purify" the dwelling, and not for the first time, she was actually _glad_ for fanatics. They made such easy patsies when one needed to cover up a black op!

She quickly hailed a cab once back on the main street, passing right by the unsuspecting police officers who ran towards the side road that led to the little house she'd specifically set up for this meeting. They were surprisingly fast in their response, though she'd been relying on that. This entire neighborhood was known to be a hotbed of anti-secular dissent, which made it easy to rile up the denizens pretty much whenever they needed a mob.

As she sat in the backseat, the scene of the murder fading fast in the rearview mirror, she smiled charmingly at the cab driver — who beyond being young, seemed unused to seeing European women — and took off her hijab, letting loose her long, black hair.

Taking out her custom, encrypted cell phone, she smiled as she dialed a particular number. "_C'est moi,_" she said calmly in fluent French, eyeing the curious cab driver who kept stealing glances at her. Again, she flashed a charming smile at him, causing him to blush and return his attention to the road ahead. "_Oui. J'est le dossier. Non, aucun problème. Tout le monde est sortie avec ce qu'ils voulaient. Bon..._" she paused for a moment, eyeing the column of black smoke rising in the rearview mirror with a smile. "_Presque tous_."

She paused for a moment. "_Non, non. Ce ne seras pas nécessaire. Rappeler-les._"

With that, she ended the call and shot the still-peeking cabby a bright smile. He was cute enough, she supposed, and she _had_ just finished a rather boring job. Not to mention that he'd shown no sign of recognition of any part of her conversation, meaning he didn't _seem_ a French agent. Not to mention that with that conversation she'd just had, any French agent worth their salt would've either revealed themselves to help her, or done so to take her down for impersonating a French agent. And goodness knows she'd dodged her fair share of _those_ in the past few days!

Apparently, she'd earned something of a notoriety within the intelligence community. While nothing could ever be linked to her, someone had managed to piece together the fact that wherever she turned up, someone either died or government plans tended to leak to the worst possible people.

Perhaps that's what Xeno had been talking about when he said he thought her retirement date was fast approaching?

If so, she couldn't imagine a worse fate for a field agent. She thoroughly enjoyed her work — not so much the killings as the intrigue and undercover work. She held herself at a standard that dictated that her best jobs were those where the mark never had a clue she'd even been there. Unfortunately, there were also wetwork jobs that needed doing, so she had to violate that standard more than a few times.

She sighed as she leaned back into her seat. No use worrying about it now. Her mission was complete, and Operation SUNRISE was one step closer to becoming reality.

A good day, overall.

* * *

_**August 25, 2015...**_

_**A SPANISH-NORTHERN UNION?**_

_LADY ISABELLA SPOTTED WITH HEIR APPARENT TO SPANISH THRONE!_

_**SOCIETY MAGAZINE**__, LIVERPOOL — Could the Royal Palace be about to issue a happy announcement? Our in-depth reporters seem to think so, as the Lady Isabella Potter, sister to the King and daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Oxford, was photographed, as seen above, enjoying what seems to be a lovely, romantic walk with His Royal Highness, Prince Charles Albert of Asturias!_

_In what is obviously a sign of their closeness, the Prince and Lady Isabella never unlinked their arms during their walk and, as seen in photographs, appear to have been in deep, stimulating conversation that pleased them both. Another sign, our reporters insist, that the two have been quite close and could be heading towards marriage!_

_If so, this would unite the Houses of White and Bourbon, possibly even giving a fair chance at an actual union between the two allied nations!_

* * *

_**Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun...**_

"Is this true?" asked Joshua as he waved the paper frantically in his hands at Isabella, who was sitting calmly in her brother's palace's living room. Said brother was, in turn, quietly observing the Minister of Foreign Affairs work his way into an aneurism with something approaching amusement.

"What is, Minister?" she asked simply before taking a sip of tea.

"_Are you seeing the Prince of Asturias?!_" he demanded more clearly as he put the offending article before her eyes.

"I wasn't aware that the Foreign Office sought its information from gossip rags, Minister," Isabella noted calmly before looking to her brother. "Were you aware of this, brother?"

"I was not," Harry said with a mildly amused expression. "Joshua, your taste in newspapers have indeed changed."

Joshua blushed a bit before clearing his throat and straightening up. "I, well...this is actually my daughter's, Your Majesty," he stated primly. "She is the one who brought it to my attention."

"And did the Foreign Office confirm the pictures as legitimate?" Harry asked, still quite amused by this entire situation.

"I...well...no, Your Majesty," Joshua admitted. "I dare say I might've...well..forgotten to notify them before coming here."

"So in short, you have no idea if the article is even real, but decided to come here anyway to verbally assault my sister regarding an affair that may not even, in fact, exist?" Harry asked slowly, the look of amusement growing steadily. "My dear Joshua, are you _sure_ you don't need a vacation?"

"You Majesty, if there is _any_ truth in this article regarding your sister and the Prince of Asturias, then it needs to be brought out into the open as quickly as possible!" Joshua insisted, trying desperately to salvage his reputation as he realized that he had, in fact, stormed into the Royal Palace to accuse a member of the Royal Family on the word of a magazine that was barely even considered a tabloid, much less news. "There could be diplomatic repercussions!"

Harry snorted. "Of course," he agreed pleasantly, clearly meaning none of it. Looking over to his sister, Harry smiled at her and asked plainly, "Sister, is there any truth to the claim that you're seeing the Prince of Asturias in a romantic fashion?"

Isabella was quiet for a moment as she enjoyed her tea, and then took her time to set the porcelain cup back onto its plate. Only after it was on the nearby table did she deign to answer the question. "There is," she stated plainly.

Harry's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but there was no anger there; only pleasant surprise.

Joshua, however, was much less sanguine. "I knew it!" he exclaimed before pointing an accusing finger at her. "Have you any idea what you've done?"

She shot him an icy stare. "I've met a nice man who treats me very well and respects me for who I am, not for whose sister I am," she stated curtly. "And frankly, it's none of the state's business."

"Hard to argue that," Harry mumbled, knowing that if the state had been able to voice their opinion on his own marriage, Elicia would _not_ have been first pick. And if he so much as tried to pick for his sister, he had little doubt that between his mother, Josefina, Elicia, and his sister, his daughter would be ascending to the throne _very_ soon.

"Of course it's the state's business!" Joshua argued, instead. "This is massive news! The political ramifications could unbalance Europe and force the French and other anti-Northern powers to come after us more proactively!"

"You mean declare war," Harry clarified.

"Yes, I mean war!" Joshua exclaimed, rather put out that neither sibling seemed remotely concerned. Were they just diplomatically blind?! "Look: so far, our Alliance of Neutrality has put us under the radar as far as the French and Russians are concerned. Why? Because they think the status quo's back in business; alliances are made one day, broken the next," he expounded. "But a marital union between the House of White and House of Bourbon? That's permanent. That means two of the major thrones in Europe going to basically the same immediate bloodline. It also means the risk of two mage monarchs in the near future. This will be unacceptable to our enemies. They will strike fast to make sure this never happens!"

Harry frowned at the analysis and then leaned forward to look towards his sister. "He has a point," he noted.

Isabella sniffed derisively. "Even so, I will not be told who to see and who not to," she stated decisively. "If my brother can marry a normal girl without starting a war, then I can marry a normal man as well!"

"That normal man is a Prince!" Joshua reminded her, wishing she'd just see why he was so concerned. "There are consequences to state marriages!"

"You have kept at bay the French and our enemies for the past five years, Minister," she reminded him firmly. "Through everything that's happened, even the Civil War, they never once invaded us, even at our weakest. Use that magic to make sure there won't be a war over who I choose to marry."

With that, Isabella turned to her brother and gave a short curtsy. "I'm sorry, brother, but I should go. All of this arguing has made me quite...ill," she stated formally. Harry merely smiled at his sister and nodded.

"Of course, Lizzy. Send mum and dad my love," he told her, right before she disappeared with a pop.

Left alone, Joshua and Harry met each other's gaze for a split moment before the Minister plopped down where Isabella had been, his head in his hands, rubbing his nape in frustration.

"Why can't she just choose someone else?!" he demanded, more to himself than anyone.

Harry chuckled. "Were it so easy, Joshua," he said before reminiscing. "I can't imagine ever picking anyone other than Ellie as my wife," he informed the Minister. "Even though there were far better choices, politically speaking, she was always going to be the one. Love is strange that way," he mused, before eyeing his Minister of Foreign Affairs. "What about you? Could _you_ imagine being married to anyone but the Duchess?"

Joshua snorted. "Of course not," he admitted. "But it's different for you and I. You're the King; you make the rules. Me? I'm just a Minister. My kind come and go at your pleasure. But Lady Isabella? She's a Lady of the House of White. Who she marries, what kind of children she bears...all of that can change the course of history," he reminded the King. "What if her children have magical abilities? They would rule over one of the remaining European kingdoms, now empowered by the acquisition of Portugal, with absolute control over Atlantic-Mediterranean trade routes. Our enemies won't just take a union of our countries as easily as she thinks they will."

"Then we must make it something they will have to bear with, even if they hate it," Harry stated simply.

"Majesty?"

Harry smiled as he looked at the spot where Isabella had Disapparated. "My sister is more like me and my mother than people give her credit for. She's decisive, and strong willed. Even if we ordered her to _not_ marry the Prince of Asturias, she would," he predicted. "Not out of spite, but because she refuses to let her life be controlled by others."

"Even come what may?" Joshua asked tiredly.

"Of course!" Harry exclaimed with a chuckle as he leaned back in his chair. "Don't those make the best love stories of all?"

* * *

_**September 10, 2015...**_

_**NORTHERN-SPANISH-BENELUX ALLIANCE IN SUMMIT TALKS TODAY**_

_TOPICS RELATING TO MILITARY COOPERATION SET TO DOMINATE TALKS_

_**NBC**__, AMSTERDAM — As announced a month ago, the Heads of Government of the allied states of the Kingdom of Spain, Kingdom of the Netherlands, Kingdom of Belgium, Grand Duchy of Luxembourg, and the Kingdom of the Northern Sun are set to meet today in Amsterdam in order to further cooperation between the member states._

_On the agenda, our reporters have been told, are the issue of deeper military ties between the member states, as well as the possibility of economic integration — in essence, creating the very first multi-state economic union in Europe. Some readers may recall attempts at establishing such a union following the end of World War II, which unfortunately failed as Robert Schuman, its architect, was unable to acquire French consent to the plan._

_Also attending the meeting, in an observer capacity, are representatives from the Republic of Austria, the Italian Remnant, and Switzerland. It has been speculated by some commentators that the exclusion of Austria from the main negotiations was meant as punishment due to Austria's decision to enter the war, despite its claim to neutrality. All delegations have so far denied this._

_Reactions to the summit, however, have been vociferous. In the allied states, an overwhelmingly positive public reaction was recorded by pollsters, as results show that the majority believe this to be a first step towards a peaceful, stable Europe._

_In France and Russia, however, the news was met far less pleasantly. A spokesman for the French government warned that this had "the look of an alliance meant to displace and isolate France," and that the French government would "be keenly observing the meeting for signs of hostility towards the French Republic." Meanwhile, a spokesman for the Kremlin stated that while the Russian government welcomed the move towards a peaceful Europe, they could not understand "why it seems that more than deepening economic ties, it seems the meeting is about unifying militaries." He then asked, "Is this Alliance attempting to welcome peace, or threaten war?"_

* * *

_**Amsterdam, Kingdom of the Netherlands...**_

"Good grief, Xeno, you look _terrible_!"

Xeno coughed into a fist in between glares directed at Sirius as the Prime Minister entered the suite. So far, the negotiations had gone well, with Sirius naturally dominating the meeting by charming every head of government to go his way. The promise of further Northern investments in their countries also helped, of course.

"You're not a picture of Adonis yourself," Xeno grumbled before tossing Sirius a file. "Reports from Josefina and Wolfsbane," he stated simply, before another fit of coughing took him. "They...They're being quite successful at riling up old animosities in Eastern Europe."

Sirius raised an eyebrow as he speed-read the file, flipping one page after another. "So it would seem," he said, somewhat torn between feeling awe at the level of skill his best friend and honorary niece showed and feeling horror at what they were doing. "I suppose this'll come in handy when we hit that military integration bit in a while," he conceded.

Xeno coughed again. "Thought it might," he said in satisfaction before sitting down and breathing deep. "Stupid lungs," he cursed.

"You've had that cough for over a week now, Xeno," Sirius pointed out. "Have you at _least_ seen a doctor?"

"No time for doctors," Xeno grumbled. "Too much work."

Sirius snorted. "That's a stupid thing to say," he opined as he moved towards his liquor cabinet and brought out a bottle of whiskey and a single glass, knowing Xeno would never drink on the job. "What would Luna think?"

"Save the political tricks for the Prime Ministers, White!" Xeno snapped before another coughing fit hit him. "And leave my health...to me...gah."

Sirius said nothing as he took a seat opposite Xeno and drank from his glass. It was admirable in a way, he supposed. Xeno had been with the Northern cause from the very beginning, back when Harry had been just another military officer with big dreams but little else. For the eccentric laughing stock of the Magical World, it hadn't been the promise of riches or power that lured him to Harry's side, but his daughter. His beloved, only daughter Luna, who'd suffered terribly at the hands of the intolerant and traditionalist magical population once she'd graduated from school. How could he continue to sit quietly (or as quietly as the editor of the Quibbler could be) and watch her recede deeper and deeper into a lifeless shell?

So naturally, when Harry offered him a new world order, where people like Luna could thrive, he'd jumped at it with utter delight. As a member of the Northern faction, he'd been forced to abandon many of the eccentricities he'd enjoyed as editor of the Quibbler, but in his mind it was all worth it, as it meant Luna now had a shot at a relatively normal life.

So Sirius could understand _why_ Xeno was so dogged in his work, why he refused to take a sick day to recover; the Northern Sun might have become a nation, but with enemies like France and Russia still about, their experiment was in constant danger of failure.

Even so, perhaps it was time to pass on the torch.

"Go see a doctor, Xeno," Sirius told him simply. "Our generation's done quite a lot. No one would blame you if you just passed on even some of your responsibilities to someone else."

Xeno clicked his tongue irritably. "I said drop it, White," he said flatly before opening another file, flipping it in his hand, and offering it right-side up for Sirius. "Profiles on the Prime Ministers. Dark secrets, skeletons in the closet, that sort of thing, if the need arises."

Sirius raised an eyebrow. "Don't leave much to chance, do you?" he asked, somewhat worriedly. He wondered, did they have such a file on _him_?

"We make it a point not to," Xeno stated flatly before coughing a bit more and, once the fit subsided, cleaned his hands with a handkerchief and leaned forward to make decisive eye contact. "Now then, the King is asking: _can_ you deliver on the strengthening of the alliance?"

Sirius shrugged, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "So far, there's no reason to be concerned," he admitted. "The Prime Ministers are all very well aware of the precarious position they're in, and they're looking for a viable way to defend themselves, especially with the ugly precedent the French established."

"So we can expect the treaty to pass?" Xeno asked pointedly.

"As long as nothing goes wrong, I don't see why not," Sirius said with a relaxed smile. "Calm down, Xeno. Everything's been going according to plan. The French are impotently flexing muscle they already expended, the Germans don't care about anything other than reconstruction, and everyone knows the _Russians_ aren't dumb enough to start World War III in the middle of Euro—"

Before he could finish his sentence, however, Sirius was ejected from his seat, and Xeno from his, by a large explosion that shook the whole building. Furniture fell around them, as did bits of ceramic and glass, as the whole place seemed to be coming apart. Xeno, not one to waste time, quickly scrambled towards Sirius, grabbed the Prime Minister, and quickly Disapparated from sight.

Apparating across the street from the building, amidst a crowd of panicked and dismayed onlookers, Xeno fell to one knee as Sirius crumbled to the ground, both coughing violently from the experience. Across the street, Xeno spied the top floors of the Amsterdam RAI Conference Centre building on fire and smoking, while hundreds of people were running from the grounds.

Already on call, just in case, Xeno could also hear the blaring sirens of firetrucks and ambulances racing towards the centre, while policemen and soldiers started cordoning off the area.

"Merlin," Xeno breathed, before remembering he had Sirius with him. Outside the cordon, the two of them would be gravely exposed, especially if there was a backup plan to kill the Prime Ministers — which he was convinced this attack had been about. Grabbing Sirius and lifting the younger man by putting his arm around his shoulder, Xeno quickly — or as quickly as one could carry a half-dazed man — made his way to the security cordon, where he hailed an officer.

"_Stoppen!_" the policeman shouted at him as he tried to work Sirius under the cordon, then himself. Stomping up to them, the policeman reddened as he saw he was being ignored. "_Toegang is hier verboden!_"

Xeno couldn't speak Dutch, but he had a fair idea what the man was telling him. Basically, bugger off, you're not allowed here. He glared at the policeman before pointing at Sirius. "This man is Michael White, Prime Minister of the Northern Sun," he told the man flatly. "I need to get him to safety."

The policeman scrunched his nose in confusion for a bit — no doubt not exactly fluent in English — before apparently working out the situation. Or, he'd seen the badges Sirius and Xeno were wearing for the first time since he tried to stop them and realized what the situation was. Either way, he quickly put Sirius' other arm over his shoulders and helped lift the Northern Prime Minister towards where the military was deploying its armored vehicles. Already, Xeno could see a couple of the other Prime Ministers being ushered into the cars, and sighed in relief. At least the meeting wasn't a _complete_ disaster.

Once they reached the soldiers, the policeman began babbling rapidly at one of the sentries, who nodded and quickly called in two of his buddies to help with Sirius. Reluctantly, Xeno allowed them to carry him off to the safety of an armored car, where he was sure to receive quick treatment for any injuries he might've suffered. Left alone, Xeno sighed in relief again before fully grasping their situation.

They'd been attacked. And, from the looks of it, it had been specifically planned to disrupt the alliance's meeting. That meant either the French or Russians, or more fantastically, the Albion mages.

Either way, he was furious.

Motioning to the policeman who'd helped him, he gestured for the man's radio and, upon receiving it after giving the reluctant man a death glare, changed its frequencies to a pre-set channel.

"This is Dolos to all cells within transmission range," he spoke calmly, though the undercurrent of fury was palpable to all who could hear him. "Maintain radio silence until I am off the channel and transmit this message to all other cells. The summit has been attacked. Constellation has been secured, but the message has been sent. I want names, people. And addresses. And professions. And families. I want every shred of information you can scrap together as to who did this. And when that happens, I want every one of those pieces of trash exterminated."

He took a deep, rattling breath that he had take great pains from becoming a coughing fit. "Dolos out."

He'd gotten complacent, he knew, and this was his price to pay for it. For the past five years, the Northern Sun had been cheerily destroying the best laid plans of others while countering everything thrown at them, and this was their enemies' response.

The sound of creaking metal caught his ear, followed swiftly by the dismayed rants of the policeman he'd borrowed the radio from. Apparently, in his rage, he'd crushed in in his hands.

"I'll buy you a new one," Xeno told the man simply before discarding the broken device. Walking away, he wondered how best he could salvage this situation. If he could just prove that the French were behind it, he could rally the alliance around the Northern Sun and brand the French as power-hungry warmongers. If the Russians were blamed, much of the approval their government had gained would be lost since, as happy as the populace was with the economic recovery and the way the mages had distinguished themselves, they weren't excited about a new European war.

But if it was the Albion mages...

Oh. Oh, ho ho...

Well, let's just say Swift would be one happy man.

* * *

_**September 20, 2015...**_

_**AMSTERDAM SUMMIT ATTACK DEATH TOLL RISES TO 15!**_

_ALLIED NATIONS STILL INVESTIGATING ATTACK ORIGIN_

_**NBC**__, LONDON — As the tragedy in Amsterdam continues to unfold, recent information has raised the death toll of the attack to fifteen individuals, all of whom were discovered to have been in the very same floor where the explosion took place._

_At the moment, senior officials of every allied nation have declined to single out any group as the originators of the attack, instead calling for calm and assuring the public that the summit will take place regardless of the attack, in a blunt showing of open defiance towards the terrorists responsible._

"_Rather than cower away," Minister of Foreign Affairs, His Grace the Duke of Warwick, was recorded as saying at a press conference following the attack, "these incidents simply tell us that whatever we're doing, we're doing it right. We are making the enemies of order, peace, justice, and freedom for all tremble at our combined strength. So instead of hiding away, we will carry on with the summit regardless."_

_Critics of the Northern government were quick to denounce the Minister's words in Parliament, where they accused His Grace of inciting the terrorists responsible for the Amsterdam bombing._

"_Rather than shake our fist, it is far more reasonable that we first find and bring to justice those responsible," spoke the MP for Brighton Pavilion, the Rt. Hon. James McCreedy. "What do we gain by this empty saber-rattling, I ask you? Nothing but trouble."_

_However, despite the Opposition's stance on the issue, polls across the Northern Sun and throughout the allied nations indicate a resounding approval of the allied states' expression of defiance towards the terrorists. In Belgium, where the Prime Minister was amongst the most wounded by the attack, suffering numerous lacerations across his left side, the public acceptance vote for a new, immediate summit stood at 95%, beating even the Northern Sun polls, which show an approval rate of 90%._

* * *

_**Hogwarts, Republic of Albion...**_

There was a resounding crash in the Great Hall as the doors flew wide open, crashing against the wall at each side. Storming into the place, newspaper in hand, Ginny Weasley went right for the Head Table, where she _knew_ Scrimgeour would be.

"Miss Weasley! What is the meaning of—!" he started to cry out, his mane of hair ruffling almost instinctively at the danger she posed. He had no chance to finish his indignant objection, however, as Ginny threw the paper onto the table and slammed her hands on either side of it, her sheer force of presence making Scrimgeour sit right back down.

"Did you do this?" she asked flatly, a dangerous glint in her eyes.

At age 34, Ginny still didn't cut an imposing figure, if one judged that on the basis of height. Between her magical nature, good grooming habits, and a fairly good training regimen, she still looked about 25, was still around 5'3", and still had that petite figure that didn't seem to be anything near intimidating.

Yet no one dared speak.

For all the meek figure she _could've_ been, Ginny was a powerful, talented witch, and people in the room knew it. Not just in magical talent, either, but through her connections to almost half of the Albion citizenry's finest. Rumors even abounded about how she was possibly the leader of a black ops group that carried out dirty missions in the name of Albion.

In fact, as she held her glare at the Minister of Magic, her usually ever present bodyguard, Colin, came into the room and casually made his way to her side. Even so, she was not deterred.

"Did. You. Do. This." she repeated crisply.

Scrimgeour swallowed nervously, hardly believing the terror this young woman was inspiring in him. He'd faced down Death Eaters, Dark Lords, politicians...yet this one woman scared him more than all the others combined. And it wasn't what his colleagues thought, either — he knew about the connections, the talent, and he had a more-than-adequate basis for believing the black ops rumors.

No, it was her eyes.

He recalled how she'd once, in a Council Meeting, described Harry Potter's eyes when she'd met the man in prison, back during the Anglo-Spanish War. She described them as carrying an endless streak of violence and ruthlessness, held back by just enough reason and logic as to make him a dangerous, yet potentially good man. The eyes, in short, of a man willing to go to _any_ lengths to get what he thought was his.

For some reason, as he was stared down by the youngest Weasley child, that very description popped into his head, but about _her_.

"I didn't," he managed to say, hoping she'd just leave. As it was, he was sure to need some massive damage control after having much of his government see him get intimidated by this one woman.

Ginny, for her part, kept her glare levelled at him for a moment, searching his face for any sign of deceit. Was he lying and covering his ass? It wouldn't be hard to imagine, considering that as much as he claimed to be different from Fudge, he did many of the same underhanded tricks.

Still, she could see he was clearly quite intimidated by her, and truth be told, this _didn't_ ring like something he would do. It was too clinically precise. Too well coordinated.

"Fine," she stated. "I apologize for intruding on lunchtime, Minister. I'll be taking my leave now."

No one stopped her as she made her way back out. Not only were the Ministry Aurors unwilling to try their luck with her, but she was also practically untouchable. She was best friends with the Deputy Minister, her family was held in high regards for all the work they'd done in establishing the Mage Territories, she was herself known as the only Auror in the world who'd managed to arrest Harry Potter, and most importantly, held the trust of Nicholas Flamel, who basically shielded her from any legal ramifications by being a major adviser to both Dumbledore and Scrimgeour.

Outside the Great Hall, as she made her way back towards the grounds, she felt Colin keep pace with her, not saying a single word.

"Speak your mind," she ordered.

There was no hesitation. "Was that wise?"

Ginny shrugged, her gait steady and unflinching. "I don't care," she stated flatly. "Whoever attacked that summit is asking for enormous trouble — trouble we _can't_ afford to have right now. Not with the Death Eater remnant running loose in Albion," she reminded him. "If Xeno even so much as _thinks_ it's us, we'd be at war within hours. Destroyed as a nation within a week."

"Aren't we underestimating our own strength?" Colin asked her simply, taking his boss' words at face value but playing Devil's Advocate anyway.

Ginny snorted before pausing in her stride and motioning to him the village that surrounded the castle. "Look at that, Colin," she told her confidante. "Look closely. That, right there, makes up about half of our entire population. Half of Albion lives within a stone's throw of the Castle. If the Northern Army decided to throw everything at us, all they'd need to do was bomb this valley and half of our country is dead."

She then gave a small, incredulous laugh. "And the worst part?" she posed then, shaking her head in amused dismay. "The worst part is that those _idiots'_ answer to our military problem is to name the so-called 'scions'" she air quoted. "of the 'noble' houses of our society the leaders of individual militias. _Militias_, Colin! If he'd called them levies, it would've been more accurate! It's a bloody feudal nation we live in, and no one seems to care!"

Colin was silent as he looked out at the Hogwarts grounds, where, as Ginny accurately stated, more than half of Albion's population lived. Thanks to magic, they'd been able to accommodate thousands in the valley, despite Ginny's vocal opposition to this concentration of the total population. Flamel, too, had been opposed, but had taken the political option and remained neutral, so as to stay away from any negative repercussions either choice would've presented.

"So what's the plan?" he asked as they stood there, side by side, looking out onto the grounds.

Ginny sighed, her shoulders sagging. "I don't know yet, Colin," she admitted, much to his surprise. So far, she'd managed to keep the Death Eaters at bay, the Northern Sun at bay, and matched wits with Harry Potter himself...but for the first time in a long, long time, she felt like she had no play. "This...whoever it was that did the attack on Amsterdam...we need to find them. We need to find them and feed them to the Northern Sun."

"Why?" asked Colin, a little uneasy about cooperating with their southern neighbours. "Won't they find them on their own?"

"Even if they did, what makes you think they won't just fix the evidence to point at us?!" Ginny snapped irritably. "Xeno's not an idiot, nor is that man Hughes. You and I both know they're at the head of the faction that wants Albion _gone_. Don't you think they'd fabricate evidence just to see us burn?"

Colin winced. She had a point. While there was no concrete evidence to show that fixed factions existed within the Royal Court in Liverpool, all one had to do was open their ears in that city and rumors would flow regarding who was in league with who, and what they apparently wanted. And since William Swift, the One-Eyed Butcher of Sector 4, was constantly rumored to be seen in the company of Hughes and Xeno, they had a pretty damn good idea of what that faction wanted.

"Who's to say they won't do that anyway, once we give them the people responsible?" Colin asked nonetheless.

Ginny glanced at him. "We won't give them the chance. We'll go straight to the top with the information," she told him. "Neville, maybe. Yeah. He'd do nicely. He's too loyal to the Throne to fabricate evidence."

Colin remembered the fearless commander he'd once dueled. Ever since that brief little fight, all he'd heard about Neville was how much more talented he'd become. Even after his defeat during the initial fiasco in the Death Eater Territories, Neville had never stopped growing as a warrior or a commander, and Colin had to admit he was curious to see how far his rival had come.

"Understood."

* * *

_**October 5, 2015...**_

_**NEW ALLIANCE SUMMIT CONCLUDES TOMORROW!**_

_TREATY VOTE TONIGHT!_

_**NBC**__, THE HAGUE — Despite still the lack of a clear perpetrator for last month's attack, the Prime Ministers of the Northern-Benelux-Spanish neutrality alliance have, readers may recall, decided to continue with the summit brutally interrupted in last month's events. The new summit comes even after the tragic death of the Prime Minister of Belgium, whose multiple lacerations in last month's attack in fact hid much more serious injuries within his body that ultimately claimed his life._

_The new Belgian Prime Minister, the Rt. Hon. Carl Vandenbosch, has pledged his undying support for the summit's goals, claiming that doing so would honor the memory of his predecessor, who firmly believed in a strong alliance to tame the European chaos, and conform to the needs and desires of the Belgian people._

_Prime Minister Michael White of the Northern Sun, as with last month's event, opened the new Summit two days ago, which after a solemn remembrance ceremony in honor of those lost to the attack, gave way to two solid days of negotiation as every interested party came together to hammer out what may or may not be a formal treaty of military alliance._

_The French government, still in protest towards the summit, called the occasion "dangerous saber-rattling," and warned the allied nations not to attempt to impose their will on the rest of Europe. The Kingdoms of Sweden, Norway, and Denmark, however, were congratulatory towards the summit's attendees for demonstrating great courage in ignoring the as-of-yet uncaught terrorists responsible for the deaths of twenty people in last month's attack._

_Observer nations to the summit, including the Republic of Austria, the Italian Remnant, and the Swiss Confederation were optimistic regarding the possibility of a treaty. "Understandably, we are incapable of being certain one way or another," said Marco Rovere, a spokesman for the Italian Remnant delegation. "However, with the attack unifying the peoples of these nations, I should think that the only reasonable result is a treaty."_

"_We can only hope," offered Eckhard Koetz, the head of the Austrian delegation, in regards to the passing of a treaty. "People say this is only for the benefit of the allied nations, but we do not see it this way. A treaty will lead to another major power in Europe rising, and with the stakes higher, perhaps there will be a greater chance of peace."_

* * *

_**Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun...**_

"It was the French," Xeno stated flatly.

Harry raised an eyebrow as his Director of SIS failed to expound. Nearby, he could hear his daughter squealing with delight as she was chased around the living room by her mother. A small smile cracked his serious facade before he managed to get it under control. "Explain."

Xeno nodded to his aide, who handed a folder to Harry. "Agent Nightshade tracked down the maker of the explosives that were used in Amsterdam," he narrated as Harry read the details within the file. "After some...convincing...she managed to wrest the pseudonym used by the buyer, as well as a physical description we're pretty sure was fake."

"What happened to the bomb maker?" Harry asked, already knowing the answer.

Xeno shrugged. "He had an accident. Bombs are notoriously delicate things to have, much less store quantities of in a rather small workshop," he stated simply.

Harry nodded — he figured. "Continue."

"As suspected, Nightshade had no luck with either the name or the physical description, so we hacked into the security cameras in the general vicinity of the bomb maker's workshop. After putting the video feeds through an A.I., we caught a hit."

"Oh?" Harry hadn't known that SIS had requisitioned an A.I. Then again, perhaps that made him all the more the fool. Of _course_ an intelligence agency would want the most advanced data analysis program ever invented!

Xeno nodded. "We tracked the buyer down, and after some more convincing from Wolfsbane and Nightshade, he was gracious enough to tell us that he'd been hired by a third party. That third party ended up being an anonymous company incorporated seventeen years ago in the Republic of Panama, where the laws regarding anonymous corporations effectively shield the beneficial owners from any sort of in-depth checking."

"So we can't find them?"

"I never said that," Xeno stated with a tight smile. "With the help of our A.I., we were able to track down the firm responsible for the incorporation of the company — though we found it defunct, and successfully retrieved the name of their point of contact with the company's owners after a lot more use of _convincing_ towards the lawyer we found. That point of contact was based in Martinique, where we were able to find evidence that he was employed by the DGSE, the French Republic's external intelligence agency."

Harry raised an eyebrow in awed admiration at the work Xeno had accomplished in so very little time. Usually, this sort of investigation took years in the making, but apparently lighting a fire underneath the SIS could work miracles!

"Good work, Xeno," he praised. "Though I was hoping for a less costly reason for war, I have to say, this one makes for a pretty good case."

"Yes...if we use it that way."

Harry knew that tone. He'd used it countless times before, usually when he was on the verge of explaining an outrageous plan that could either make or break the nation. "What's on your mind, Xeno?"

"The evidence points to France, but reasons for war against the French are numerous and likely forthcoming. Why not use the evidence against Albion?" he suggested.

Harry was silent for a moment before tapping the file. "You want to alter the evidence to implicate the Ministry?"

"More like...reinterpret," Xeno categorized. "As of right now, all we can really say is that the bomb was deliberately targeted towards the Belgian Prime Minister, since the DGSE saw him as a traitor for joining the neutral alliance rather than coming to France's aid during the war. However, interpreted differently, the Ministry could've performed the attack by blindly attacking the leaders of the alliance without adequate preparation. Their prior ineptitude already proves them capable of such bungling, so it wouldn't be a stretch of the imagination."

"Except it's another lie," cut in Elicia, standing at the door, her daughter in her arms. The Queen looked none too pleased, and as soon as she passed her infant daughter to Cecilia, walked up to the duo and fixed Xeno with a reproachful glare. "There have been enough lies, Director," she chided him.

"I don't know what you mean, Your Majesty," Xeno stated neutrally.

"You know very well what I mean!" she snapped back, while Harry stayed quiet and listened. "I've my own sources as well, Director, and they _know_ you found French connections to the attack!"

Well, that called for an internal investigation at SIS, if that was true. Xeno would _never_ allow leaks within his own organization. "That's one interpretation, Your Majesty," he stated tightly. "Another is that this evidence could be used to take down that thorn in our side up north."

"Who? The Ministry?" Elicia asked with amused insincerity. "For goodness' sake, Xeno! They're a backward, technologically deprived nation! They kill each other more than they kill anyone else, and their leadership is a _joke_! They've even alienated the only person who's an actual threat to the Northern Sun, and yet you make them out to be this great big boogeyman!"

"No nation ought to have to watch their backs as they move forward," Xeno stated firmly. "And Albion is just a blight on the map."

"A harmless blight whose bark is far worse than their bite!" she insisted. "And they have allies of their own! Ireland, for one, and numerous other magical communities around the world!" she reminded him. "Why start that unnecessary war?"

"She makes a valid point, Xeno," Harry pointed out reasonably. "Albion's not a threat to us...not yet. Nor will it be for some time. And while I'd love to wipe that place off the map, we need to focus on the bigger picture," he stated. "First, we need to take out Ireland, or bring them into the fold. We can't risk the French using the Irish to open a second front. And, knowing the Ministry, they'll just let us steamroll over their allies without lifting a finger."

Xeno slowly nodded, still uncomfortable that his idea to wipe out Albion had been shot down. Hughes and Swift would _not_ be pleased. "Aye, that matches our analyses."

"It'll be a good time to test out MJOLNIR in a combat situation," Harry reasoned. "So far, it's seen incredible results in the lab and in field exercises," he noted before smiling up to Elicia. "Wonderful work, love," he praised her.

She blushed prettily at the compliment — she always treasured his praises. "It...it was nothing."

"Hardly," Xeno scoffed. Even he had to admit MJOLNIR and the other projects designed by Elicia's department had been nothing less than revolutionary. MJOLNIR, in particular, served as a unique replacement for the Northern Sun's artillery needs.

"Invading Ireland is not something to be undertaken lightly," Elicia then said, trying hard to avoid the subject of her inventions so as to downplay her embarrassment. "They are a sovereign nation, and have done nothing to antagonize us."

Xeno actually smiled at that comment. "Oh, I wouldn't worry about that."

* * *

_**October 31, 2015...**_

_**TREATY SIGNED!**_

_EUROPEAN TREATY ORGANIZATION FORMED!_

_**NBC**__, THE HAGUE — In a historic moment, the heads of state of the five nations comprising the Northern-Benelux-Spanish alliance have finally put to paper their signatures on what has since been titled the Treaty for the formation of the European Treaty Organization. Effectively a basic tariff union, with the option for future development along economic lines, the Treaty also works by providing the legal framework for a defensive union amongst the five states._

_Continuing a line of protest started since the beginning of the negotiations, the French Republic has voiced its strong disapproval for the proceedings, calling it "sham politics" and "a clear move to instigate conflict in Europe." While not as strongly worded, the Russian Federation's spokesperson was also quite critical of the treaty's signing._

_While many commentators within the signatory nations have dismissed these concerns as mere paranoia and contrarianism, it is worthy to note that since the beginning of the negotiations, expert analysts have been consistently voicing concerns regarding increasing tensions. While media pundits have been quick to either affirm or deny these concerns, the question remains: with this new organization, __**is**__ Europe heading towards a new war?_

* * *

_**Wishaw, Albion-Northern Border...**_

"This is a mistake."

Ginny sighed as she listened to her brother Ron complain about the upcoming proceedings again. Ever since the Northern Sun had _willingly_ reached out to Albion to set up this meeting, Ron had voiced his suspicion constantly — as much in public, as in private, which was not well viewed by the Ministry, who desperately wanted to keep the Northern Sun as far away as possible from its borders.

And if a peace agreement and normalization of relations led to that, then so be it.

"So you've said a thousand times, Ron," she noted sourly as she kept glancing at her watch every few seconds. According to the pre-set time, the Northern delegation was supposed to be arriving within a few minutes to Wishaw, which stood right about on the border between the two nations.

Inside the meeting's designated building, Albion's diplomats were excitedly chatting amongst themselves. Well, they'd been _designated_ diplomats, but the truth was that all of them were there mostly either because of their wealth or because of the deeds they'd done in service of Albion.

Flamel, for instance, held great positions on both ends. However, John Creevey, Colin's son, was there solely thanks to his father's esteemed position at Ginny's side. Arthur Weasley, for his part, held great esteem amongst the common folk, who saw him as a kind voice amidst a sea of corrupt, self-serving politicians. Of course, there were more than these three men within the diplomatic team, but as they waited for the Northern delegation to arrive, it was quietly agreed upon by these three that they should take the lead, lest one of the less qualified diplomats end up starting a war.

"How's everything out here?" asked Flamel as he came out, a kindly smile plastered on his face as he nodded to Ron, who went inside for a spell. It was his public persona, so Ginny made no comment on this strange act.

"Boring," Ginny replied honestly. "The Northern delegation seems to be taking its sweet time."

"Means they're not worried about bad impressions," Flamel lectured her. "I _knew_ we should've arrived sooner to the deadline. Coming too soon reeks of desperation."

"Which we are."

"That's not the point," Flamel stated flatly. "We are already on the backpedal, and the Northern Sun hasn't even arrived yet!"

"I'm sure you'll find a way to fix that," Ginny stated smartly before quieting down as something caught her eye near the edge of town. "Wait. I think that's them."

Nicholas quieted down as he looked in the same direction and, to his consternation, the so-called Northern delegation was merely a single man walking calmly towards them, his blue and silver uniform unmistakable in the light of day.

A military mage.

"Circe's blessing...that's Oliver Wood!" Ginny breathed as she recognized the former Gryffindor Quidditch Captain and star Keeper. "I thought his family had been killed off!"

"Apparently not," panned Flamel before laying a hand on her shoulder. "You greet him. I'll get the others ready inside."

Ginny nodded imperceptibly before walking forward to meet Oliver, while Nicholas ducked back inside. As she did, she found herself uncomfortably at a loss about the situation. As far as her intelligence had uncovered, the Wood family had been killed by Death Eaters at the outbreak of the Civil War down south, when many mage families, seeing the chaos of the Death Eater-Ministry situation up north, decided to take a chance with the Northern Sun. Unfortunately, many were caught in Anti-Apparation Ward traps or hijacked Floo conduits, so many losses were had in the attempted self-exiles.

But apparently, at least one Wood survived, and he was walking towards her in a uniform whose golden strips on the epaulets told her he was high-ranking.

"Wood, what an interesting surprise!" she greeted with a tight smile as she extended her hand.

Oliver, for his part, took a minute before recognizing her — after all, his exposure to her in Hogwarts had been quite small. "Ginny Weasley, right?" he greeted her in turn, partly aided by the notoriety the petite redhead before him held amongst the Northern Sun's higher ranks.

Ginny nodded with a pleasant smile, noting the strong, firm grip he had when he shook her hand. There was no hesitation there, only discipline and commitment. This would be a tough opponent for the diplomats inside. "I admit, when I heard the news about your family...I feared the worst."

Wood's stern visage never faltered even as the death of his family was brought up. "It nearly was. Were it not for Death Eater sloppiness, I wouldn't be here today," he stated calmly.

Another warning sign, as far as Ginny was concerned. If even past trauma didn't shake him up, there was little chance that any of the delegation inside would manage to move him an inch. It was strange, though; she recalled Oliver Wood as a cheerful, excitable man. Had becoming a military mage truly changed him into this rock-solid soldier?

"Are they inside?" Oliver asked her calmly, nodding towards the building.

Ginny blinked a few times, surprised she'd been so lost in her own thoughts, before nodding. "Aye, I'll escort you," she stated. As she did, she hoped, truly, that these negotiations wouldn't end up with one pissed off nascent superpower ready to stomp down on Albion.

Ginny really hated it when she was right, sometimes.

The initial meeting had been quite cordial and nice, and then the blockheads the Ministry had assigned to initiate diplomatic relations with the Northern Sun had begun demanding things, like the evacuation of the former Death Eater territories, or the abdication of the Northern King — _that_ one had the diplomat evicted so quickly by his own team that the man hadn't quite realized they'd thrown him out until a few seconds later. Ginny personally saw to it to stun the man.

All throughout the lunacy spouted by the so-called diplomats, Oliver and the three main negotiators for Albion had been quietly observing the proceedings. Oliver, in particular, had been taking notes on individual requests and demands, which frankly worried Ginny. Was he intending to pass those along to the Minister of Foreign Affairs? Or worse, Hughes? If so, they could be at war within minutes!

"If you're all quite done," Oliver finally stated as he put down his pen and laced his fingers together on the table. "I believe it's time for the Northern Sun to make _its_ proposal."

At this, the room quieted — helped along a bit by Flamel's wordless silencing spell on the troublemakers — and listened with rapt attention. Oliver nodded in satisfaction at the attention he was receiving.

"The Northern Sun is not interested in war with Albion," Oliver pronounced flatly. "In case you were worried. We do not find gain in wasting soldiers on the subjugation of Hogwarts, or any other minor population centre you currently hold."

"That's...quite kind of you," Ginny's father noted a little confusedly. "But surely...that's not the gist of your message to us?"

Oliver shook his head. "Indeed not. It was merely an assurance of what the Northern Sun wishes to _avoid_." There it was again. Ginny had noted that twice now, Oliver had categorized the Northern Sun's desire to avoid warfare with words that denoted feeling, rather than hard fact. Where was he going with this?

"What we want, in fact, is quite simple," Oliver continued. "We wish for Albion to end its alliance with the Republic of Ireland effective immediately."

Huh.

Hadn't seen that one coming.

* * *

_**November 3rd, 2015...**_

_**IRISH GOVERNMENT TO JOIN E.T.O.!**_

_DISMISS ACCUSATIONS OF IMPENDING WAR AS REASON!_

_**NBC**__, DUBLIN — Amidst widespread accusations of cowardice and treason, the Taoiseach and the President of the Irish Republic announced in a joint press conference their recent decision towards bringing the Irish Republic, a known ally of the nation of Albion, a nation still distrusted throughout much of the world, within the European Treaty Organization._

_Unsurprisingly, say expert commentators on the situation, there has been an outcry on both ends of the political spectrum, as many believe the decision by the government was made under threat of war. While no documentation or substantiated evidence exists to confirm these allegations, to some residents in Dublin, the proof could not be more obvious._

"_Why else would the government switch sides so suddenly?" asked one concerned citizen, who asked we refrain from publishing his name. "It makes no sense! Two days ago, we were allies of Albion, now we're ready to jump into a defense pact? I don't buy it."_

_Another government critic, who also wishes to remain anonymous, asserted many of the same sentiments. "It's true that there's no proof, but at the same time, where's the reason to join the ETO?" she asked. "All we're doing is making things worse with France and Russia. No one here wants to get dragged into a war!"_

_Government officials, however, have maintained that it is for this very reason that the Irish Republic must join the ETO._

"_While we understand the worries of the people, we must insist that the only reason we are beginning the process of becoming one of the ETO's members is to __**avoid**__ conflict, not start it. The larger the deterrent, the less chance for war!" insisted a spokesman for the government._

_Already, many protests have broken out throughout the Irish Republic to show unity with the people of Albion, despite the fact that reports suggest that it was the mage nation which broke off the alliance, not the other way around._

* * *

_**Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun...**_

"His Majesty will be with you shortly, Generals."

Oliver sighed as he remained at attention, his ceremonial sword hanging loosely at his side, his blue greatcoat fully buttoned up, and every decoration on his chest and shoulders gleaming. He knew he'd be forced to face the music sooner or later, but hadn't expected the King to call on him this fast, or that his fellow general Neville would be around for his chastisement.

Looking to his senior, in terms of length of service, Oliver found him quietly at attention, his blue cap tucked under his forearm, his expression impassive.

"Fucked up as well, did you?" Oliver asked weakly in an attempt at lightening up the place.

It elicited no smile from Neville. "I'm here because of you, Oliver," the infamous Wenshi responded flatly. "Your little stunt up north has put a wrench in many an important person's plans."

Oliver cringed at the flatly-delivered recrimination. He knew Neville was right; no matter how justified Oliver felt the decision was, the truth was that he'd gone above and beyond the limits of his authority. While his mission stipulated he was to _only_ deliver an ultimatum to Albion to force them to break off their alliance with Ireland so that the Northern invasion could proceed without issue, Oliver had managed to convince them to pressure the Irish to preempt the invasion by joining the ETO, thereby effectively neutralizing any plans for war.

Naturally, this made _a lot_ of people in eminent positions unhappy. Not the least of which was the architect of the Death Eater genocide himself, Albert Hughes.

As Oliver heard it, Hughes had railed about him in full Royal Court, lambasting his efforts for a peaceful resolution with the accusation that thanks to this move, the Irish would remain a constant voice of dissent against the Northern Sun's policies towards Europe, even if by the same means they had effectively cut themselves off from the possibility of allying with France or Russia.

Swift, for his part, had been rather curt towards him since the incident. While never the closest of friends, all officers who had participated in the Civil War and the subsequent invasion of the Death Eater territories held somewhat amicable relations with one another. Yet, since his actions in Albion, Oliver had begun to feel the cool anger of Swift being directed towards him. He knew the one-eyed general still resented the free mages bitterly for the loss of his eye and his men, and any deal that prevented war with either them or their allies was enough to get into the man's rather permanent shit list.

Then again, the only reaction that had truly surprised him was that of Neville, who now stood waiting by him. A known associate of the vastly pacifistic Queen, Oliver would've thought that Neville would appreciate stopping an unnecessary war, thereby sparing lives all around. Yet, as it was now becoming apparent, Neville had some issue with what he'd done. Or, at least, that's how Oliver was interpreting it, considering his colleague hadn't directed more than a few curt words at him since seeing him back from Albion.

"Ah, Neville, Oliver!" they heard a familiar voice call out to them as it descended the staircase towards them. Looking up, both Generals bowed slightly as they saw Harry approach them, a wide smile on his face, much to Oliver's suspicion. After all, wasn't he in deep, deep trouble?

"I do apologize for the wait," Harry told them earnestly as he shook hands with both. "I was putting Katie to bed. She's always full of so much energy...it's like another job in itself!"

Neville cracked a small smile as he listened, always glad to see this fatherly side of Harry. For Oliver, who'd never had the privilege to see Harry in this sort of mood, it was quite enlightening. "Not at all, Your Majesty," Neville stated humbly. "We apologize for the late hour."

"Nonsense; I _was_ the one who summoned you both, after all," Harry stated reasonably before waving them deeper into his home. "Come, why don't we talk in my office?"

Oliver allowed himself to be led into the Palace, taking note of the relative lack of opulence within its halls. Not that there wasn't any — it was just hardly there, which contradicted what he knew of other Royal families, whose palaces tended to be as much about showing off as they are about living inside them. Here, other than a few paintings and perhaps the fine state china, Oliver couldn't really pinpoint anything that screamed extravagance at him.

Even the King's office seemed rather normal, which further cemented his vision of Harry Potter as a man who didn't seem to seek power for the sake of luxury, but rather for a vision. As they entered the room, he and Neville were directed to sit opposite Harry's desk, while the King himself sat on the other side, his back to a large window that Oliver had little doubt was both conventionally and magically reinforced to withstand anything short of a MAC Gun round.

"Tea? Coffee?" Harry offered as he got comfortable in his seat.

"Tea will do fine, Your Majesty," Neville stated simply. Oliver quickly voiced his consent. Harry nodded and pressed a button near the edge of the table. "Cecilia, three teas, if you wouldn't mind," he requested before glancing at his guests. "Green tea alright?"

Neither general refused, so Harry took that as a yes. While they waited, however, Harry got right down to business. "As you might have imagined, I called you both here regarding the Irish matter," he stated calmly, interlacing his fingers on the table and fixing the two of them a calm, yet stern stare. "Neville, you are fully briefed on what went down?"

Neville nodded. "I am, Your Majesty."

Harry nodded. "Good, saves us time," he stated before looking up as the door opened and his wife's lady-in-waiting arrived with a tray with their cups of tea. "Ah, Cecilia! Perfect timing!"

Oliver always prided himself on being sharp-eyed. As Keeper for the Gryffindor House Team and team captain, he'd always been forced to deduce plans of attack from the smallest of moves made by the opposition. This time, however, his senses caught the slight flinch that Cecilia made when Harry addressed her. Even though she did a wonderful job of hiding it, Oliver could tell just from her body language how utterly terrified she was of the King. She made another flinch upon seeing Neville, too, though not as pronounced. Mentally filing this away for future, discreet inquiry, Oliver thanked her kindly as she passed him his cup and saucer. Thankfully for the young woman, she was quickly out of the room, leaving the three men to their discussion.

"As you well know," Harry started again as he dipped his bag of tea into the hot water, "plans had been drawn up for a quick, blitz invasion of Ireland," he reminded the two. "This was done with the express intention of bringing the Irish into the fold and ridding us of possible foes when the time for Operation SUNRISE arrives."

"Yet, despite these plans, you, General Wood, decided to take it upon yourself to incite Albion to pressure Ireland into voluntarily joining the ETO. Before I say anything further, I'd like to give you the opportunity to explain yourself," Harry told Oliver calmly.

Oliver felt himself tense as his turn had come up. Putting the cup and saucer on the table, he took a deep breath as he collected his thoughts and took a firm air. "The war with Ireland was unnecessary, Your Majesty," Oliver explained. "It would've been a waste of public wealth, of our time, and a blight on our image."

Harry said nothing as he took a sip of his tea, which Oliver took for tacit approval for him to continue.

"Had we gone to war with Ireland, we would've been no better than France," Oliver stated. "Because no matter what cockamamie excuse the SIS may have constructed for it, the rest of the ETO would've thought that the Northern Sun, as the principal neutral signatory to the European Treaty, would've shied away from such conflicts."

"You are aware, of course, that the idea was to use Ireland as a test run of our new military hardware and HAVOC troopers?" asked Harry simply.

Oliver nodded somewhat hesitantly. "I was, Your Majesty."

"And that we now have no way to test-run MJOLNIR or HAVOC in actual live-fire war exercises?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Silence. Harry took another sip of his tea before putting it back on the table and looking to Neville. "Neville, your thoughts?"

The ranking Military Mage had been quiet throughout the discussion, but having now been directly addressed, he lowered his cup onto its saucer and kept it at waist-height. "With all due respect, Your Majesty, I agree with General Wood's assertions."

"Please explain," Harry prompted with a slight frown. Oliver, for his part, was shocked at the revelation that Neville approved of his actions. All he'd seen from the taciturn man so far had been cold indifference that had him convinced he was on Neville's shit list. Apparently he'd been wrong.

"While I can understand Advisor Hughes' desire to test run MJOLNIR and HAVOC in a pre-SUNRISE operation, I believe he's forgotten the fact that the main value in both is the element of surprise," Neville pointed out reasonably. "Already, we risked our enemies finding out about MJOLNIR with the naval exercises, so why tempt fate and do so again in plain view of the world? Every rumour would suddenly seem validated. Every crazy conspiracy would suddenly get some credibility assigned to it."

"If SUNRISE is to work, we need to take France off guard," Neville stated. "More importantly, we need to make sure Russia stays out of it. We can't do either if they know beforehand that we are now the proud owners of two major, game-changing technologies!"

Oliver found himself nodding along as Neville spoke. That was absolutely correct, in his opinion, and he was glad to see that even the King was considering the man's words carefully.

"I see..." Harry spoke aloud, carefully considering Neville's counterargument to Hughes' own diatribe on the subject. To be honest, while he _had_ supported the invasion of Ireland, the idea of test-running two top secret projects in the middle of it had always seemed a little ridiculous to him. "You should know that Advisor Hughes demanded that I sack you immediately, General Wood," he pointed out. "For going beyond the scope of your orders."

Oliver cringed. There was no escaping that he did, in fact, do that. "I acknowledge that fault, Your Majesty, but I stand by their result," he stated, hoping he kept some of the stress he was feeling out of his voice.

Harry considered him carefully before nodding. "You would be a lesser man if you didn't," he stated before turning his gaze back to Neville. "I'll leave his punishment to you, Neville. He's your subordinate. However, for the moment I think you'll retain your commission, and your place in SUNRISE."

Oliver bowed his head in gratitude, while Neville nodded curtly. "Understood, Your Majesty," they chorused.

Harry nodded back. "Be glad for it; others less humble would've had their careers ended," he told Oliver imperiously. "And be sure to run by any such schemes with your superiors _before_ doing them, General Wood. As much good as I'm sure you feel you've done for the world in preventing this war, you've cost us a lot of resources."

Oliver nodded again. "Yes, Your Majesty. I will."

Harry nodded back before considering the two military men for a moment. He could recall how, years ago, he would've been the one on the other side of this conversation, trying to justify some wild scheme or use of his powers to superiors. He even recalled the meeting where he'd been told of the establishment of the Military Mage...heaven, how he missed Strider and Miles, sometimes!

"Very well then, dismissed," he told them. Immediately, both generals were on their feet saluting him, which he returned, before they were on their way out. Their cups of tea lay abandoned on his desk.

Outside the palace, Oliver finally allowed himself to sigh in relief as his career _didn't_ go up in flames due to his little escapade. Next to him, Neville was silently fixing on his cap.

"I can't believe that went as well as it did," Oliver spoke aloud, emulating his senior colleague.

"His Majesty is wise," Neville stated before turning his head slightly to glare at him. "But what you did was _still _a breach of your orders, Wood. If SUNRISE had depended on the invasion of Ireland, we would be in much direr straights."

"Then why support me before the king?" Oliver asked, honestly quite confused by the on-and-off again support from Neville.

Neville remained quiet and merely started walking away, prompting Oliver to follow him in order to get an answer. "I supported you because it was the wisest course to take in this instance, and because I knew the Irish invasion was nothing more than a glorified training exercise for our army," he stated finally. "Had it been mission-critical, however, I would've spoken against you just as quickly."

Oliver sighed. At least he was being honest.

* * *

_**November 20, 2015...**_

_**HIGH-LEVEL OFFICIAL DEFECTS FROM ALBION!**_

_NORTHERN SUN CLAIMS DIPLOMATIC VICTORY!_

_**NBC**__, LIVERPOOL — During a press conference this morning, a spokesman for the Foreign Office announced the defection of one Severus Snape, a former ranking Albion spy within the Death Eaters and noted magical chemist, to the Northern Sun, along with many other scientists who have alleged intellectual repression within the magical nation._

_According to the government, the defection can be attributed to the efforts of the Northern Mages Association, a noted pro-registration NGO officially endorsed by the government, in attracting disaffected mages from Albion into the Northern Sun._

_While the government of Albion has denounced the defectors as traitors, the Northern government has since declared that as asylum seekers these defectors would live under the full protection of the Northern Sun._

* * *

_**Fort Drake, Kingdom of the Northern Sun...**_

Snape wasn't quite sure how he'd gotten here, to be honest.

Oh, not the actual events; _that_ part he was _quite_ clear on. No, the real question that bugged him was how his life had managed to get so utterly..._complicated_.

As a child, he'd befriended Lily Evans, and that relationship had lasted until he'd thoughtlessly lashed out at her during a petulant argument with James Potter and his friends — a miserable routine, by that time — while a student at Hogwarts. He'd then engaged in such self-loathing as to join up with Voldemort, only to realize, too late, what the psychopath had in mind for the woman he _still_ loved.

Fortunately, in the one instance of competence he'd _ever_ attribute to the Potter patriarch, they'd managed to survive the encounter and banish the Dark Lord for a good while. Now without a master, however, he had to serve at Dumbledore's beck and call, which for the most part he did willingly and gratefully, considering the efforts he knew the old man had expended on keeping Lily safe — even though some of that gratitude had flaked off once Dumbledore's intent on making the Potters into his recruitment posters had become obvious.

Over the years, however, he'd found his reasons to stay by Dumbledore's side erode more every day. Why was he still teaching children he barely respected? Why was he still acting the spy for the Order long after the Death Eaters' power was broken? And then, once the Northern Sun invaded the Death Eater territories, why was he still around, now that his job as a spy was irrelevant?

He remembered the day he'd switched sides for the first time. That had been for Lily. She'd been in imminent danger and he alone knew the way to save her. And while Lily was still alive, she was _not_ on his side. Or Dumbledore's. Or the Ministry's.

She was on her son's side.

For a while, bitter resentment had kept his disaffected thoughts at bay. Why would he ever join the Northern Sun, when his arch-rival's _son_ ruled as a _king_, of all things? He'd seen pictures of the young man, and he felt his anger boil every time he looked at that face, so similar it was to James Potter's own.

But as time went by, he was forced to reevaluate his stance on the eldest Potter child. He was nothing like his father, in many ways. While still nauseatingly heroic, he was also cunning, ruthless, and charming, all at the same time. He was surprisingly just and a believer in universal equality. He was brave, yet knew when to retreat.

In all honesty, Snape had found himself wondering many times if perhaps Lily had not conceived Harry with someone else, considering her oldest son was, in many ways, _nothing_ like his parents!

But one look told him that wasn't true, and so he had to admit that perhaps in James and Lily, hidden depths existed which neither had bothered to explore. A shame, really. Perhaps if James had let loose his inner cunning, Snape might've respected him more.

But either way, this new look at Harry Potter had made Snape reevaluate his loyalties. Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix, or _Albion_ as they liked to call their so-called nation, remained sickeningly idealistic. He'd gagged when he'd heard of the government's intent to institute militias, to be captained by the scions of the "noble families," as though that meant some intrinsic superiority existed within their genes. He'd been outraged at the reluctance the same government had, championed by Dumbledore himself, in dealing the death blow to the Death Eaters once their territories were stripped from them by the Northern Sun. And even worse, he knew that the one person they ought to be listening to in regards to dealing with Potter, Ginevra Weasley, was constantly being pushed aside in favour of more politically acceptable advisors.

In short, it was utterly maddening.

The decision to actually defect, however, was not his own. Not totally, anyway. Even though his job as a spy had ended with the conquest of the Death Eater territories, he'd been occupying his time spying on those within the Albion system who seemed disappointed with the way things were going — potential defectors, in short.

Why, he had no idea. Maybe he'd been subconsciously continuing what he'd been doing most of his adult life. Or perhaps he'd subconsciously decided that knowing these things could help him achieve a more comfortable life. Whatever the reason, however, Snape had managed to identify several potion makers and runic magic researchers who, feeling cast aside in funding and attention, had begun plotting to defect.

Again, he wasn't sure why he hadn't turned them in, but for months he'd just watched them plot away, silently gathering all the information they were unknowingly spilling to him every time they _thought_ they were being stealthy. At some point, however, Snape found himself walking over, and joining their discussion.

And that's what led him to being here.

There was no conscious decision to defect; it'd just..._happened_. Even now, as he was led deeper into the highly top-secret base he'd just moments before been informed was called Fort Drake, he couldn't think of a reason why he'd decided to join the plotters instead of turning them in.

Hell, when the SIS interrogators had grilled him for _weeks_ about it, he'd been able to give them nothing regarding his own intentions. Obviously, they were (and, as far as he knew, still are) quite sceptical about his motivations, and had filed multiple requests to detain him for a few more weeks for further interrogation. Happily, they'd been refused, and so he was let out maybe a few days later than his colleagues, whom he guessed had probably fed the SIS all the politically adequate horror stories they wanted to hear about Albion...which in turn would probably fuel the Northern Sun's propaganda campaign against the tiny magical nation for months to come.

"We're here," he heard one of his escorts say, snapping him out of his reverie. Roughly, he was jostled into a rather large room full of strange, mechanical equipment he was not at all familiar with. Even so, he could _feel_ the science radiating from the room. _This_ was a place of higher learning that ridiculed all the labs he'd seen and inhabited back in Albion!

"Ah, our newest member arrives!" someone exclaimed to his right. Apparently he'd been so enthralled with the wonderfully equipped laboratory that he'd failed to notice the scientists who already inhabited it. "Oh, come now, I don't think those are necessary, are they?"

Looking down, Snape realized the man was talking about his magic-sealing cuffs, which had been slapped on him since the moment he'd crossed the Albion-Northern border and been identified; an upgraded model to the ones that had restrained Harry Potter during his imprisoned return to the UK all those years ago. He didn't even know why; they'd taken his wand practically the second he'd been taken into custody.

"Just protocol, doc," one of his escorts reminded the scientist, who merely shook his head in disapproval.

"Well, he can't very well participate with those on, now can he?" the elderly man chided the guard, who shrugged. "A scientist must have access to the fullest range of his abilities to do the great work!"

Snape's escorts glanced at each other for a moment before one of them radioed for instructions. Snape felt quite awkward as he stood there silently, while the older gentleman — or older looking, there's no real telling with these non-magical folk — inspected him.

Realizing how rude he was probably being, the man quickly gasped and smiled at Snape while extending his hand. "Oh, my apologies! I didn't mean to stare; name's Rupert Graves," he introduced himself. "Chief Scientist of this project team."

Snape glanced at his guards for a moment before slowly reaching forward and using his shackled hand to shake Rupert's hand. "Severus Snape," he practically mumbled.

"Really? What a fascinating name!" Rupert said with a bright smile. "Not many who use Latin names anymore!"

Snape shrugged, frowning internally. Was this man taking the mickey out on him, or was he being genuine?

"Anyway, I'm sure you'll find yourself quite a home here," Rupert continued, motioning towards his team, who continued about their business without paying much, if any attention to the proceedings. "They're not a chatty bunch, but they're all good folk. Our work here's important, you know!"

Snape rather doubted that. There was no way a recent defector would be so quickly put to work in a major scientific project; not even in the Northern Sun.

Rupert seemed to realize his train of thought, as he suddenly looked a little sheepish and rubbed his nape. "Well, alright, not like HAVOC or MJOL—"

"Doctor!" one of his teammates chided him.

Managing to look even _more_ sheepish, Rupert clamped his mouth shut. "Sorry, not supposed to talk about that," he explained apologetically. "Anyway, it's not like the major projects, but it _is _important work."

As curious as the man's slip of the tongue had made him about those other projects, Snape _did_ want to know what he was going to be conscripted into doing in the near future. "What is it?" he asked softly.

"Well, medicine, mostly," Rupert admitted. "Civilian-grade stuff, for the most part. We're tasked with creating more potent medicines by mixing magical and non-magical processes."

Snape raised his eyebrows. That was both incredibly interesting, and unimaginably dangerous. An experienced potions master himself, he knew very well how volatile magical ingredients could be, and how low the threshold for catastrophic failure was in potions making.

Still, the opportunity to do some good did appeal to him. He was more than ready to admit that after a lifetime of scurrying in the shadows, doing the dirty work of the Order, being put through more torture curses than he'd like to admit, and killing others...he was ready for a change. Ready to put his natural talent at potions brewing and research to good use, for once.

"Okay, SIS says we can take off the cuffs, but only while he's in here," one of his escorts spoke up then, having just gotten off the radio. His partner went for the key and began the process of taking them off his wrists. "Security will be sending escorts every day at five in the evening to take Mr. Snape back to his lodgings," the man continued. "So if you want to extend his stay here, you'll have to put in a request with the administration."

"Of course, of course," Rupert waved off the explanation; no doubt he was used to the bureaucratic nonsense.

As soon as the cuffs came off, Snape felt a surge of indescribable feeling wash over him as his magic returned in full force. He felt his muscles tense up as he digested the experience and his body re-accustomed itself to having magic flowing through it. It felt..._good_.

"Excellent, excellent!" Rupert exclaimed as Snape regained control of himself. "Well then, why don't you follow me and I'll introduce you to the rest of the team?"

Snape smiled...for the first time in a long while. Yes...perhaps _this_ would be a good place to start over.

* * *

_**December 25, 2015...**_

_**ANNIVERSARY CELEBRATIONS DAZZLE THE NATION**_

_FESTIVITIES HELD THROUGHOUT THE COUNTRY_

_**NBC**__, LIVERPOOL — Yesterday's glamorous celebrations, held in honor of our nation's fourth anniversary of its founding and His Majesty's coronation, have been hailed by the populace and foreign observers as a magnificent display of the Northern Sun's rising status and wealth amongst the nations of the world._

_Even as families readied themselves for Christmas, citizens lost no time in showing equal affection and devotion to celebrating the founding of the Northern Sun as parades were held in every city of the country, with many smaller festivities being arranged in the smaller population centres._

_Even in the devastated Occupied Territories, formerly in the hands of the vicious Death Eaters, Northern troops and civilian colonists found the time to celebrate the occasion with gala dinners and military parades._

_However, no festivities seemed to outdo that of Liverpool, as the nation's capital wowed the world with extravagant fireworks displays, parades, and displays of recreational magic that showed the world the versatility and patriotic spirit of the Military Mages. The King and Queen, accompanied by the Heiress Apparent, too, joined in the festivities as they participated both in parades and later in greeting much of the populace that braved the winter cold to observe the festivities._

_Reactions to the ruling family's presence was overwhelmingly positive amongst the revelers. "Having them out here, with the rest of us, despite the cold...I can tell you that's a man who loves his people," said one such celebrant who was lucky enough to shake hands with the King._

"_The Queen was so kind!" extolled another. "She saw my son was getting a little cold and asked His Majesty to use a charm to warm him right up, and he did it for all of us!"_

_Even regarding the Princess, the reaction was very positive. "You constantly see kids her age complaining about being out in this cold...but not her," one mother told us while handling two children of her own. "She's quite well behaved for her age. More mature, too!"_

_Ending the parade, His Majesty then delivered a speech, broadcast to the entire country. In it, he congratulated the citizenry for their hard work in the past year, and extolled the need for further perseverance as the Northern Sun pressed for its place in the sun. However, much to the consternation of foreign commentators, His Majesty then addressed what has been assumed to be the question of mage rights. An excerpt follows:_

"_It is important, however, to remember that while we have lived in relative prosperity, justice, and peace since the inception of our country, that not all have had this luxury," said His Majesty. "Happily, we were able to end the suffering caused by the Death Eaters to our north, but we must remain aware that even now, there are still countries close to ours where people are not free. Where they are persecuted and oppressed for the mere accident of their birth."_

"_The Northern Sun has made it clear its stance: liberty and justice __**for all**__! We are a nation which does not discriminate on any grounds, and we must remain true to this view both in our dealings with ourselves, and in our dealings with others! That is why I hope you will all join me in adding your voices to the call for all other nations to cease their persecution of the mages and magical races. For while governments continue to promote policies of hate, there can never be any peace."_

* * *

_**Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun...**_

"Papa, papa, look!"

Harry smiled at his daughter as she happily showed off the doll she'd unwrapped. "It's very pretty, Katie!" he agreed.

"Prettier than mama?" the princess asked after a pause.

Elicia, sitting next to him, giggled at the question. "_No one_'s prettier than mama," Harry stated wisely. That got him a smile from Elicia and a peck on the lips.

"Nice save," she told him with an impish smile.

"Just stating the truth, love," Harry said with a grin.

"I wanna kiss too!" Katerina protested as she held her arms out to her father, her doll forgotten on the floor for now. With the little time she got to spend with her parents, Katerina had shown a rather possessive streak when it came to displays of affection.

Of course, Harry happily obliged his daughter as he scooped her up and held her in between himself and Elicia. Giving each other a meaningful look, the two then proceeded to bend down and shower Katerina with kisses in a rather exaggerated way, causing the three year old to squeal.

"Tickles!"

Both Harry and Elicia joined their daughter in laughter, with Harry soon grasping her in his arms and giving her a hug, which the toddler gladly returned. Not to be left out, Elicia made a big show of pouncing on them and tickled her daughter with wild abandon, her efforts paying off with the wild laughter of her daughter.

In the midst of this, Harry couldn't help but be amazed at how blessed he was to have this sort of family of his own. Years ago, the very idea of being a parent had seemed alien to him, considering the horrific acts he'd been ordered to do during the war with Spain. With all the nightmares and trauma he'd accumulated through his years of service, he'd been just about ready to swear off the idea completely, not wanting his child to have to know what a monster their parent had been.

And, let's face it, it had taken some time to get over all of that. For one thing, Elicia had been a major help in recovering from his trauma, mostly by pushing him to talk it out with her and later by convincing him to seek psychiatric help. It wasn't easy — between setting up the foundations of the Northern Sun and directing one war after another, when would he find the goddamn _time_? — but he'd eventually gotten over his self-loathing enough to consider the idea once more.

And then, when Elicia had told him she was expecting, the last vestiges of those mental shackles seemed to fade away as elation took over. Having forged much of his legacy through war, deceit, and death, he was overjoyed at the thought of having created something out of _love_; of having fathered a child without having had to destroy the lives of others!

And Katerina never seemed to find a way to disappoint him.

She had her mother's looks, but had inherited the recessive redhead and green eyes genes of her paternal grandmother. Beyond her appearance, though, she had inherited all of her mother's brilliant intellect, although at this point all that meant was that she was exceptionally quick in learning how to read, write, and talk. She was energetic, too, which he insisted she inherited from him; whenever she wasn't reading, she was gallivanting about in the gardens, usually coming back inside tracking mud and with her clothes dirtied up good.

Of course, if anyone asked him, Katerina was perfect, though Elicia knew better.

Elicia, being the parent who saw Katerina most often, knew that just as Katerina had inherited many good traits, the princess was also prone to fits of intense emotion and stubbornness, much like her parents. Even worse, with the fact that Katerina didn't get to see her father all that often, Elicia had noted a definite streak of recklessness in her daughter that she was convinced was a way the toddler had devised to catch her father's attention.

A streak Elicia knew had to be curbed if she was to one day inherit the throne of the Northern Sun.

But, even as she knew this, she also knew that Harry could see no wrong in his daughter, so the monarch was content with just seeing his daughter laugh and show off her amazing talent, regarding reckless acts as bravery, even when they are clearly not.

So not for the first time, Elicia wished this Christmas moment was the routine for them, and not the rare exception. She wished Harry had never gone down that path of conquest, and had become a professor at some university, like they'd once talked about when they were younger.

For as much as Elicia knew her family was built on love, she knew that the pressures of their station would mold them in ways she might not approve of, and the last thing she wanted in the world was for her daughter to grow into a spoiled or arrogant monarch, and cast her memory in history as the Queen who brought down the White Dynasty.

"Papa, more!" she saw her daughter demand as Harry twirled her in the air.

Naturally, Harry obliged, laughing happily as his daughter squealed in delight.

"Don't do it too much, love, or she'll get sick," Elicia cautioned wisely.

Holding Katerina firmly in his arms again, Harry grinned at his wife. "Nonsense! She's a White! Her stomach's made of firmer stuff!"

Elicia raised an eyebrow. "Is that right?" she drawled, amused. "I seem to remember you having a rather long discussion with the porcelain throne after a ride in one of those revolving teacups at the fair when we were sixteen."

She giggled as Harry made a face at her. "Good point," he shuddered at the memory. His stomach had become so unsettled that day that he'd been ready to swear he was dying. John had been forced to wade into the smelly bathroom and pull him out in his weakened state. Looking to his daughter, he made a mock serious face then. "Let's not do it too much, eh, princess?"

Not getting his humorous intent, Katerina tilted her head in confusion. "Why not, papa?"

"'Cause papa'll get sick if he does, dear," Elicia supplied for her husband, smirking at him as Katerina exclaimed in understanding. Harry again made a face at her, though it quickly morphed into a smile.

"That's right," he agreed, smiling at Katerina. "There's no shame in admitting weakness."

"Why not?" Katerina asked.

"Because once you know weakness, you become kinder and wiser, princess."

Elicia smiled at that excellent bit of wisdom her husband imparted on their daughter. Though, granted, she might be too young to understand it, it was good that he at least had the wisdom to impart such knowledge on his daughter at all.

As the Queen thought, Katerina scrunched her nose as she tried to assimilate the lesson being taught here, but couldn't quite wrap her head around that. She smiled. As gifted as their daughter was, it was good to know there was still something...normal about her.

* * *

_**January 15, 2016...**_

_**TENSIONS RISE AS FRANCE LASHES OUT AT NORTHERN SUN**_

_ETO STANDS FIRMLY BEHIND NORTHERN SUN_

_**NBC**__, THE HAGUE — Last night, the President of the French Republic delivered a stinging reply to the latest declaration by the Northern Sun of its intent to convince the rest of Europe to grant equal rights to mages._

"_The Northern Sun seems to think itself the arbiter of Europe," the President spoke angrily. "But I question what a nation of usurpers and mages can possibly know about the way things work in other countries? Let the Northern Sun remember that the affairs of others are none of theirs!"_

_The statement was well received throughout the right-wing of the Republic, whose anti-mage and anti-Northern stance has been well established. Demonstrations of public support for the President's speech were reported as early as half an hour following its end._

_The approval was not universal, however, as anti-racist and pro-mage rights groups took to the streets as well, chanting anti-government slogans and often clashing with pro-government factions. LICRA, a well known anti-racism organization, has issued statements of support for the Northern Sun's initiative in promoting equal rights for all._

"_We hope that the people and government of the Northern Sun and the ETO recognize that not all stand with the government," a spokesman for the organization announced. "That there are those in nations not only France who long for the day where all men stand equal."_

* * *

_**Royal Army Barracks, Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun...**_

"Again."

Harry breathed hard, his chest rising with every inhaling motion, as his sparring partners got back to their feet and began circling him.

All of them Military Mages. All of them mere derivatives of the war machine he'd been in Spain.

"_Diffindo!_"

Harry snapped his fingers at the incoming spell, deflecting it to the side, just as another burst of magic came towards him. Quickly bringing up his free hand, he snapped that spell away as well, before twisting on his heel and snapping four flame spells towards two of his attackers. Expertly, all four spells were deflected by twists of a wand.

"_Depulso!_" cried out someone behind him, causing Harry to instinctively throw himself on the ground, just as the Banishing Charm roared overhead, nearly taking out one of the caster's own teammates.

Two snaps had the offending mage hurriedly bringing up shields as spouts of flame lunged at him.

Harry frowned. He was feeling quite worn out already, but the fight had just begun. Granted, this was his fifth spar of the day, but even so, he shouldn't have been feeling this worn out. Feeling a tinge of anger overtake him at his own perceived weakness, Harry lunged forward towards one of his attackers, using his left forearm to divert the man's wand aside just as his right hand caught the mage by the neck and threw him in the path of three oncoming spells. As the unfortunate man's teammates recovered from the shock of what just happened, Harry brought up his two hands and glaring at them, snapped into life sixteen spouts of flame, causing the mages to remember their discipline and, as a team, blocked the magical assault.

Even so, Harry was not satisfied.

"Enough," he called out to his sparring partners. "We'll end it here for today."

"Yes, your Majesty," the unfortunate mages chorused.

Grumbling to himself, Harry left the sparring room, his newly-donned shirt drenched in sweat, a glare permanently fixed on his face. He had failed to meet his own expectations.

He was only 34, so age couldn't be the reason his stamina had fallen. Yet, despite a lifetime of war, he could feel his body failing to keep up with his magic, which remained as strong as ever. And what was worse, he couldn't rightly explain it.

Neville had posited the idea that it was due to his retirement from active duty, and Harry was tempted to believe him. Ever since being crowned, so many expectations had been laid at his feet that the idea that he would visit a battlefield again was preposterous to most people.

Which certainly did nothing to improve his mood, especially as he knew that the time for Operation SUNRISE was nearly at hand.

And what was worse was that Neville, Oliver, and many of the other Military Mages, were growing in power so steadily that he feared that one day they would outclass him entirely. He had the edge of experience, no doubt there, but that was a gap easily bridged, especially in times of war.

He frowned as he dried his sweat in the locker room, the door outside guarded by his escorts. He trusted Neville and Oliver, and most of the Military Mages, if not all of them. But the idea of another mage outclassing him felt...wrong. His dynasty was brand new, as was his kingdom...so the threat of being supplanted was not really a paranoid fantasy.

In the end, if his potential to improve had finally been reached, then he would be depending on people more powerful than himself to safeguard his lands...and while perhaps this generation of Military Mages could be trusted, there was no guarantee his daughter would be able to trust those who came after.

Perhaps it was time to prepare for the future?

"Your Majesty, General Longbottom is asking to see you," one of his escorts spoke through the door.

Harry frowned. Perhaps it was serendipitous; if anyone would see to it that his lineage remained firmly on the Northern throne, it would be Neville.

"Let him in," Harry called out, sitting on the bench between the lockers. He really wished he didn't seem so disheveled, particularly in front of Neville, but he was pretty certain of the man's loyalties, so seeing the King sweat after a meager five matches wouldn't have the man running to seize the throne.

As indicated, Neville walked in, also wearing his PT gear. "Your Majesty," he greeted with a bow.

"Get up, Neville," Harry stated bluntly. "This is the locker room, not the Royal Court."

Without a word, Neville stood upright. "I wanted to broach the subject of General Wood's disciplinary measures," Neville explained. "I _was_ going to bring this up at court, but since I heard you were here..."

Harry scoffed, wiping away at the sweat on his nape. "Five spars and I'm calling it a day. I'm getting to my limits, Neville."

Neville said nothing, but only looking at him would've told Harry that Neville was hardly unimpressed. If anyone was hard on Harry for his physical condition, it was only Harry himself. As the founding Military Mage, renowned throughout the Corps as the _only_ man to have _earned_ his Hellfire designation, Harry was still practically worshipped throughout their ranks. Neville himself had topped out at three sparring sessions, his magical reserves still alright but his physical stamina far beyond exhausted. Even now, he still felt his hands shaking a bit from the residue adrenaline still pumping through his system.

"Anyway, what about Wood's punishment?" Harry continued, ignoring Neville's silence. The powerful king was pulling off his shirt now, showing that despite the monarch's own reservations about his physical condition, he was in far better shape than he cared to admit. "I would've thought you'd gotten that over with quickly."

Neville shook his head. "It's been difficult to administer suitable punishment. Wood may have acted rashly, but there was an undercurrent of wisdom," he explained. "That's not something we want to punish, not necessarily."

Harry shrugged as he patted his torso down with his towel. "So what's on your mind?"

"I want Wood to lead the Airborne division in SUNRISE."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "The Airborne? I think General Stirling's already been tipped for that operation."

Neville nodded. "He is. I would like to request that Wood gain that assignment, however."

"Convince me," Harry stated simply.

"Wood is too uncomfortable with straightforward land commands," Neville stated, still standing at attention in his PT gear, hands clasped behind his back. "Furthermore, he has an affinity for air ops. His tour with the Airborne garnered various commendations during the Death Eater pacification campaign up north. He's unpredictable, but wise enough to know when he should be and when not — something that makes him a born Airborne commander."

Harry was silent as he listened to Neville's explanation. The man made good points, and he _was_ senior enough to make his points actually important enough to warrant consideration. "Leading the Airborne during SUNRISE should not be a punishment, but rather a reward, Neville."

Neville nodded. "True," he acceded. "Yet there is no denying that he's the best man for it. I believe he has not been tipped for such a part already due in part to his command of Sector Eight, during the pacification campaign. He made no waves then, and his efficiency was subpar."

"Valid points to disqualify him from having a lead command during SUNRISE," Harry pointed out.

"Except I'm convinced he did so on purpose, due to his moral objections to the campaign's brutal methods."

Harry was silently pensive as he considered that. True, final appointments to the SUNRISE campaign were technically under the purview of the Field Marshal, in this case Speirs, but if Harry demanded the appointment, there was little Speirs could do to block it. Even so, forcing such an appointment would be unnecessarily authoritarian of him, and would sour things between him and his friend.

"Has Speirs been made aware of this?" Harry asked.

Neville nodded. "Field Marshal Speirs asked that I run it by you first."

Harry nodded again. Speirs might be a rather hard man, but he was wise first and foremost, and Harry was sure that the argument that Neville had just made would've swayed him. He was practical like that.

"Alright then," Harry stated finally. "Wood can have the Airborne division of SUNRISE, but I want him to pay some form of punishment _before_ he takes command. I don't want anyone saying we promoted him because he broke the rules."

Neville nodded and saluted. "Yes, sir!"

* * *

_**February 27, 2016...**_

_**ECONOMY RALLIES ON EVE OF E.T.O. SUMMIT**_

_HEAD OF NEW CUSTOMS UNION PREDICTED TO BE ANNOUNCED_

_**NBC**__, BRUSSELS — ETO leaders, following key declarations of support in the past month, are predicted to announce the formalization of the European Economic Confederation, buoying the markets of the member states as entrepreneurs eagerly await the lifting of tariffs amongst nations and the possibility of adopting a customs union amongst the member states._

"_Europe has been divided for too long," said Prime Minister Michael White of the Kingdom of the Northern Sun in a pre-summit interview. "Just as the Northern Sun pushed for the union of the neutral European states, we will now push for the integration of the European peoples. We cannot remain eternally at each other's throats; there comes a time when we must realize that we are all equally sentient beings, united in a desire to pursue a life of happiness and success."_

_The upcoming summit, beyond the formalization of the EEC, is also predicted to deal with further integration of military hierarchies, the final vote on the admission of the Republic of Ireland to the ETO, and the possibility of extending membership to Austria, whose intervention in the Franco-German conflict disqualified it from being initially included._

"_We are not saying that it __**will**__ happen," Prime Minister Jüncker informed this reporter. "But based on the diplomatic talks between the ETO and Austria, there may be a reason for them to be cautiously optimistic."_

* * *

_**Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun...**_

Ragnok had never felt so overworked in his _life_.

For a Goblin, the very concept felt...inconceivable, if truth be told. Goblins held a dedication to their work, whatever that may be, that humans would've found damaging, insane, or just exploitative; and for this reason, they were master administrators, master warriors (when knife work had to be done, anyway), and master bankers.

But nothing — _nothing_ — could have prepared him for the sheer mountains of work that effectively administrating the economy of an entire nation, much less _more than one_, had brought upon him.

Already, he'd had numerous up-and-coming Goblins and talented humans recruited right out of their higher educational facilities to supplement the ever-increasing demand of the Treasury as it dealt with the issues of a booming country. And then the news of the EEC possibly forming had hit his desk, and a whole new level of crazy had entered the work flow.

Regulations had to be checked, double checked, triple checked. Discrepancies amongst countries needed to be solved. Market safeguards had to be examined and tested out in hypothetical scenarios. New banking and trading regulations had to be drawn up from scratch to best accommodate the economies of five nations, with the possibility of adding _even more _in the future!

How the _hell_ had he thought he was even _remotely_ ready for this sort of gargantuan task?!

Well, if anything had been a blessing, it'd been the rigidity of the Goblin Nation's culture. If he needed more Goblin accountants, then by the Goblin gods, he'd get them! If he wanted more tax enforcers, there were many a Goblin Honour Squad ready to do his bidding!

No, if any problems arose in terms of obeisance, it came from the humans, though he had long since realized that this was just an inevitable clash of cultures.

Humans were more free-spirited, more individualistic. In comparison to the rigid Goblins who never broke a rule — on pain of death or worse, exile — humans were more flexible, more empathic, and while he'd seen this as an inherent flaw in the species, he quickly realized that if a major problem arose, they were also the _only ones_ who managed to devise a creative solution to the problem that he would've never thought of in his life!

It was jarring, but after the fifth crisis solved by a human's mind, he'd been forced to admit that perhaps the Goblin superiority complex over the emotional monkeys had been wrong. At the very least, he could now see why they were the ones who dominated the planet, rather than his own people.

Sure, Goblins were crafty and cunning, but neither meant they were especially creative in devising new products, or new industries; it just meant that they knew how best to make a quick dime using the regulations already in place.

Either way, this new EEC business had Ragnok longing for another human solution to his rising migraines, as the sheer amount of work being pressed upon him was beginning to take its toll. Even as recruitment quotas shot up, they always seemed to fall short of the new loads of work coming every month.

"The problem is information time lags."

Ragnok looked up from his fine mahogany table, which he'd been glaring a hole into for the past five minutes, to look up at one of the sole humans sitting at his conference table. The other Goblins, like him, looked to the human in confusion, and some even in condescension.

Ragnok would have none of it. Pointing a sharp nail at the human, he growled. "Explain."

The man seemed more or less accustomed to Goblin mannerisms at this point, because he didn't bat an eyelid at Ragnok's tone or command. "We are simply not able to coordinate fast enough to keep up with the number of problems," the man said. "While the internet has been an enormous boon to coordinating efforts, using the written word as a medium is still too inefficient."

"Yet all agreements are made on paper, Administrator," one of the Goblins sitting at the table growled out. "All regulations must be published."

"Perhaps so, but the discussions and negotiations that take place up until that point are not, yet they are being forced to be," the administrator pointed out. "Even as we speak, we are sending thousands of written e-mails or using chat services to coordinate with others in Belgium, the Netherlands, Luxembourg, Spain, and Ireland, but these are, in the end, still too inefficient and, in the latter case, unreliable. We need faster communications."

"A few A.I.s wouldn't hurt, either," grumbled another of the humans, causing Ragnok to narrow his eyes.

Ever since the Queen had come out with those abominations, the Goblins had been steadfast in their refusal to depend on the artificial constructs. To their eyes, the A.I.s were merely a way to slack off; to shove off work while one did as little as possible — something anathema to Goblin work ethic.

He knew the Crown had a standing offer to the Treasury for several A.I.s, ready to go at a moment's notice. Still, Ragnok felt that Goblin pride was not easily bowed on this issue.

"We must endeavour to improve our communications, then," Ragnok growled, for now shelving the idea of A.I.s. "I shall speak with the Queen on this matter. Perhaps something her people are creating could solve our problem. Beyond this, are there any other solutions we can address?"

And yet again, his boardroom exploded with discussion, causing Ragnok's migraine to start up again.

Why hadn't he just stayed a damn bank chief?!

* * *

_**April 18, 2016...**_

_**NORTHERN SUN REACHES FOR STARS!**_

_NATION LAUNCHES FIRST SATELLITE INTO SPACE_

_**NBC**__, VICTORY AIR FORCE BASE — The Kingdom of the Northern Sun has reached a historic milestone today, as the first ever satellite produced by the nation has been successfully launched from Victory Air Force Base, just a few miles away from Birmingham._

_The launch, attended by Their Majesties, the King and Queen, was celebrated by the Northern scientific community as a historic event, as the nation finally completed one of the steps widely considered to be a watershed moment for any rising nation._

"_With this," says Dr. Adrien Ansen, noted physicist and brother to Dr. Jeremiah Ansen, close colleague to the Queen. "we are now one of the spaceborne community. We are, finally, a first world nation."_

_Reactions have not been universally positive, however. On the mainland, amidst the congratulations of the ETO member states, critics have been quick to speak against the launch in France, Sicily, and the Northern Alpine Republic. _

"_This is a direct attempt at intimidation towards all those who refuse to give up their freedom to the ETO," spoke a representative of Front Nationale, a noted right-wing party in France and the ideological platform of renowned anti-mage politician Marion Delacroix. "The mages in the north think this will erode our will to be free or their charms, but they are wrong. France will never surrender its sovereignty as long as it stands!"_

* * *

_**Fort Drake, Kingdom of the Northern Sun...**_

"You seem troubled, Doctor Eisenheim."

Elicia sighed as she held her head in her hands in her lab, her colleague Dr. Ansen standing opposite her workplace, working on his own project, his fingers tapping away at his computer's keyboard at a rate Elicia would've have thought humanly possible if she hadn't already seen him at it before.

"Ragnok called —"

"The Goblin?"

"Yeah, he wants to know when we'll have the new communications systems ready for work," she explained. "Says it's incredibly urgent and can't understand why we're taking so long."

Ansen never paused his typing, merely raising an eyebrow at the comment. "Did you offer the A.I.s again?"

"Naturally," Elicia answered, rolling her eyes. "But you know Goblins; won't use anything that might make them seem lazy."

"_I do not understand, Doctor,_" Athena's holographic orb sprang to life above her terminal, next to Elicia's computer. "_I am merely a tool. Is using a tool lazy?_"

Ansen chuckled. "Sometimes, depending on the culture, Athena," he said with a smirk. "Either way, let the Goblins stew it out. Their communications project may have been their brainchild, but word's been brewing the military wants in."

Elicia rolled her eyes. Of course Speirs would want in. Why wouldn't he?

"What's the word?" she asked, finding it deeply ironic that Ansen would know this before she did, considering her status as Queen of the Northern Sun. Even so, it didn't mean her husband or his subordinates shared _everything_ with her.

"Seems like Speirs' got spies in the Treasury, 'cause he's been talking to a few colleagues of mine regarding _what_ we intend to do with this project."

Elicia sighed, wishing the outside world would just stop demanding more and more outrageous things, for once. "I really don't see how they expect us to improve on the internet," she noted sardonically. "I mean, for goodness' sake, that's information in a matter of seconds! What else do they want?"

"_By my calculations, Doctor, the most effective medium of communication would be brain to brain interaction._"

Elicia sighed again. "Thank you, Athena," she said tolerantly. As helpful as the A.I. was, it could sometimes say truly outrageous stuff. "Anyway, I don't see a way to help either the Treasury, _or_ the Field Marshal."

Ansen was quiet for a while, still typing away at his side project. "What about VANGUARD?" he asked then, quite suddenly.

"What about it?" asked Elicia as she brought up her side-work on Project ATHENA. While her usual work kept her quite busy, Elicia was determined to find a way to increase the usefulness and viability of the A.I.s. In that respect, Patil and her research team had been invaluable.

"It tested out alright, remember?" Ansen reminded her, eliciting a nod. "It worked on Floo tech, but if I recall correctly, the brief on that said the mages used to use Floo also as a way to communicate."

"Yeah, but it was faces in ash...not exactly a step up from video conferencing, and _no one_ is going to agree to putting their face in an active fireplace," Elicia pointed out. "We'd need something that at _least_ has full body projection and is totally safe. Something like those sci-fi shows you love so much."

Ansen paused, his typing for once stopping cold. "That's...not a bad idea." he mused out loud.

Elicia raised an eyebrow. "Holographic, full body projections in real time of distant persons? It was hard enough to get Athena's projection going; what the heck makes you think we could do it with something as complex as a live sentient being?"

"The Floo tech. It already does it; we just need to exponentially increase its projecting ability!" Ansen insisted. "It could be done. For chrissakes, Elicia, we made VANGUARD work when everything pointed to failure! We can do this!"

Elicia was silent as she considered what her colleague was proposing. Certainly, holographic communications would be a major boon to both the Treasury and the military, but her own concerns remained valid. VANGUARD's success had merely depended on juicing up the available tech, but this would be isolating one particular aspect of it and _then_ juicing it up.

And she wasn't even convinced they could do step one!

"VANGUARD wasn't about singling out a _part_ of the tech and making it go beyond its abilities, Jeremiah!" Elicia voiced her concerns. "We're talking about such a massive amount of real-time data being sent both ways...it's beyond the capacity of _any_ data transmission medium in existence!"

"Then we make new ones!" Ansen riposted. "Elicia, we went into this job because we wanted to make the impossible happen! This is just another challenge!"

Elicia wasn't about to budge, no matter how true his words were. "We should be perfecting what we've got already, instead of pushing further away! The A.I.s are still ridiculously limited in their cognitive capabilities, and MJOLNIR could be so much more! And HAVOC...for goodness' sake, Jeremiah, _HAVOC_ is only scratching the surface of genetic engineering!"

"I accept that, but that doesn't mean that working on this new idea is wrong!" Ansen insisted. "If we managed to pull this off, who's to say we won't find breakthroughs for MJOLNIR or the A.I. project?" he pointed out. "And HAVOC needs a live trial period, and you know it. Trying to push further with that without seeing live combat results could send us down the wrong path!"

Elicia bit her thumb nail as she considered his argument. He wasn't wrong — hell, in many ways, he was categorically correct. MJOLNIR's development had stalled, mostly due to the fact that the land-based weapons platform it principally used left very little to be viably upgraded. As for the A.I.s, she'd hit a roadblock in terms of the sheer amount of data the artificial minds needed to be able to process simultaneously to viably reach Stage 2.

In short, she needed breakthroughs, and she was coming up short.

"Alright," she finally decided. "I'll put in the official notice. Who do you want for the team?"

Ansen smiled.

* * *

_**June 3, 2016...**_

_**NORTHERN NAVY LAUNCHES NEW FLAGSHIP**_

_HMS FORWARD UNTO DAWN TO REPLACE NAMESAKE_

_**NBC**__, PORTSMOUTH — Amidst great pomp and circumstance, the Northern Navy celebrated yesterday the launching of the new flagship of the Navy, the HMS Forward Unto Dawn. Replacing its namesake carrier, which has been slated for decommissioning, the Dawn has been called by Admiral of the Fleet Amalia West a "marvel of Northern technology."_

_The Dawn replaces its older namesake after the latter has served the nation for over twenty years, seeing action in many different conflicts around the world, including the Spanish war, the Civil War, and the Death Eater campaign. It decommissioning was hard-fought by members of its crew, of which some have served on the carrier since it carried its old name, HMS Triumph._

_Regarding the new Dawn, Admiral West has issued assurances to the crew of the decommissioned carrier that those wishing to serve on the new flagship will be given consideration, though no preferential treatment will take place. Admiral West has similarly declared that the Dawn would not be an upgraded version of its namesake, but rather would prove to be a statement of the Northern Sun's new military doctrine for the modern world._

* * *

_**HMS Forward Unto Dawn, Atlantic Ocean...**_

"COMMANDER IN CHIEF ON DECK!"

The sound of thousands of boots stomping the flight deck of the crown jewel of the Northern Navy greeted Harry as he stepped off the helicopter that had brought him here. As his own boots hit ground, he had to contain a smile as he saw the thousands of servicemen lined up in four columns on each side of him raise their hands in salute.

Remarkable to think that this ship had been in a drydock not a week ago!

Beside him, Curtis allowed himself to frown. "Let's see if Amalia's little project is worth the money it cost," she grumbled, having been forced to fight tooth and nail against the Treasury to allow this ship's construction to go through.

"I'm sure it will," Harry assured his friend as the two made their way down the cleared aisle between the two groups of servicemen still at attention. As they moved down the aisle, Harry found himself staring at the central portion of the ship, nestled right in between the _two_ flight decks.

Already being called "Pitchforks," the Forward Unto Dawn-class Supercarriers were, in fact, designed to be as much a tool for brute force intimidation as they were for providing critical air support and regional command of the seas. With two flight decks sitting parallel to each other, the _Dawn_ was able to field twice as many aircraft as even the largest supercarrier the United States had in service.

But even more intimidating was the _offensive_ ability of the _Dawn_ in a regular, ship-to-ship fight.

Nestled in between the two flight decks, the command, storage, and housing portion of the ship remained virtually indistinguishable from those of a normal carrier, except that nestled against the command tower was quite possibly the three largest guns Harry had ever seen in his life.

Courtesy of Project MJOLNIR.

Impressed by its destructive ability during the field test made on the new flagship's namesake, Admiral West had asked Elicia to refit the smaller MJOLNIR guns into a three-a-piece gun emplacement, and then asked her to supersize that to serve as the main armament of the new flagship. The way she'd reasoned it, having the guns would still not qualify the ship for short-range or medium-range direct combat, but it _would_ allow the ship to provide more direct fire support during battles.

"Good grief," Harry muttered as he gazed upon the gun he'd been told the crew had already nicknamed "the Doombringer." "Could that thing be any bigger?"

"I think that's the point," Curtis muttered, mumbling under her breath that women weren't supposed to have compensation issues. "It better be worth every penny is cost, too."

Harry smiled at the comment, before allowing it to grow a little bigger as he neared Admiral West and her staff, all of whom were also standing at attention. Harry flashed a salute at them, in chorus with Curtis, before waving them down. "At ease, Admiral."

Retracting her hand, Admiral West nodded sternly. "Thank you, Your Majesty. As captain of this vessel, I would like to formally welcome you and Minister Curtis to the _Forward Unto Dawn_."

"Appreciated, Admiral." Harry chuckled. "I've always liked that name," he mused as he looked over to where the second flight deck stood. "This is a remarkable ship, Admiral."

Admiral West nodded before motioning for him to follow her inside the central section. "It only gets better, Your Majesty," she said. "If you'll follow me, please, Your Majesty, Minister?"

Curtis nodding, West led them to the middle section of the ship, just as Harry heard the NCOs shout at their men to march off the deck and get back to work. As they stepped inside, the essential personnel who'd been required to remain at their posts saluted as they toured the ship, eliciting similar response from Harry and Curtis.

"I won't lie, Amalia," Curtis spoke up after a while. "You've made a lot of accountants unhappy with this...ship," she pointed out. "I've even heard of officers in the Navy doubting the necessity for it."

Admiral West shrugged as she led them into one of the storage decks underneath the left-side flight deck. To Harry's eyes, the amount of aircraft stored here, along with boxes of ammunition and other miscellaneous crates seemed endless. He sure hoped the roof was adequately reinforced, otherwise the _Dawn_ would probably sink in the opening minutes of _any_ engagement.

"Let them," the Admiral replied fiercely. "The _Dawn_ will prove her worth in battle."

"I'd much rather it proved itself _before_ that, Amalia," Curtis stated firmly. "You asked for four of these ships, but I'm not signing over billions of pounds of public money until I've been assured of its worth!"

"As impressed as I am with the _Dawn_, Admiral," Harry interjected quickly, preventing an argument between the Admiral and Curtis — neither of whom had the temperament to back down once they got going. "I have to agree with Minister Curtis. Just one of these ships was a remarkable investment by the public into our war machine. And while it looks good in the newspapers, it must be worth every penny put into it to make it a viable choice."

Admiral West frowned as the King weighed in on the issue. Against Curtis, she had little need to restrain herself, but the King had been the one to give her the rank of Admiral of the Fleet. He was the one who'd backed the Navy's argument that a strong navy was just as important as a strong army or air force. He was also the one who'd backed the building of the _Dawn_.

"I understand, Your Majesty," she stated at long last before glancing at a subordinate. "I need a pad."

Immediately, she was handed over a digital pad which she quickly keyed into the relevant information she was looking for. After browsing it for a few seconds, she flipped it around and handed it over to Harry, with Curtis looking over his shoulder.

"Statistics on every aspect of the ship's capabilities," she informed them calmly. "Every test, hypothetical or real, conducted since the ship was first conceived of."

Without a word, Harry scrolled through the data with a critical eye. There were flight simulations conducted under the supervision of the Ministry of Science and Technology (no one could've missed the atomic logo of his wife's ministry watermarked behind the results), followed by live tests once the ship had hit seawater. There were more in-lab tests regarding the speed of the ship, water displacement, power core viability, and numerous other factors that had plagued the eggheads at the MST during the conception of the ship.

Following that, he could see the result of the numerous, nearly constant drills Admiral West had put her crew through once the full complement had boarded the ship, with results being about as expected for a crew getting accustomed to a new type of ship. If nothing else, at least they were improving steadily with each new drill. Hell, this official visit would probably be the only rest they'd get for a while.

What interested him the most, however, were the statistics for the main cannon. Scrolling on, he found this to be near the very end, under a large, red warning that cautioned readers that the results were, at this time, based on lab tests and not combat trials.

Frowning, Harry read on until he realized why the cannon had not been slated for combat simulation tests. Simply put, it was just too powerful. There was no place in _any_ of the MST's facilities that could accommodate the sheer firepower of the _Dawn_'s main armament.

"From what I understand, we could fire a single round at the Eiffel Tower from the coast and level it and the immediate surroundings."

Harry looked up to see Admiral West nodding sagely at her own words.

"The cost being that our power core would be in almost instantaneous shutdown," West added reluctantly. "The gun's more sustainable in shorter distances."

Curtis raised an eyebrow. "Not to mention that your job isn't direct fire, but air support."

Admiral West shrugged. "Sure, but why waste a gun like that when it clears obstacles so well?"

Curtis glared. "Just as long as you realize that flagships aren't meant to be frontline assets, Admiral," she reminded Amalia. "We didn't invest nearly a billion pounds into this ship just so you could slug it out with the French navy!"

Harry silently agreed. It would be rather humiliating if they'd funneled all that money into a ship that would still probably get sunk within minutes of a slugfest with a Cruiser. For now, and the foreseeable future, the _Dawn_ would have to remain in a strictly support and command role; as it was _meant_ to be.

* * *

_**July 1, 2016...**_

_**E.T.O. DECLARES SUPPORT FOR MODERATE FACTIONS IN MIDDLE EAST**_

_FRANCE CALLS THE MOVE PROVOCATIVE AND INVASIVE_

_**NBC**__, LIVERPOOL — This morning, at 09:00 AM local time, the Council of Ministers of the E.T.O. declared its unanimous support for the cause of the moderate factions fighting brutal civil wars throughout the Middle East as the fallout of the Great Reveal of 2010 continues to rage throughout the world._

_To that end, the ETO issued a call to all of its allied armed forces to aid as requested by the beleaguered factions, an announcement that has been widely praised amongst these very same._

"_To say that this was unexpected is an understatement," says Masiraf al-Fulan, leader of the Democratic Council of Iraq, a faction that has been fighting Muhajideen extremists for control of the country and professed allies of the Arab mages. "We have been hoping for the world at large to take note of the plight of the Middle East for years, without success. We are only too happy to accept this help!"_

_Worldwide reactions, however, have not been as positive. In Europe, the French government has issued a warning that interference in the affairs of foreign nations is a dangerous precedent to establish — a claim the ETO says is invalid due to the French invasion of Germany already having set such a precedent._

_In the West, the State Department of the United States has issued a congratulatory statement towards the ETO for its courage in taking on the fight against intolerance wherever it might happen, but cautioned that it should not seek to extend its mandate beyond helping the beleaguered factions._

_For the two new member states of the ETO, however, the call to arms to aid these nations is the right step to take. Austrian Ambassador to the ETO Hans Egger calls the move "the only rational step to take for any lover of freedom and justice." For Irish Ambassador Eileen O'Hara, the decision is much more personal. "For centuries, the Irish people wished others would hear its cry for help in its fight against colonialism. Today, we will show the world that even though the Irish received none, it will not abandon those who want to live free of oppression."_

_Already, we are told that elements of the Northern Navy have been ordered to offer seaside support in the conflicts in the Middle East, led by none other than the formidable new flagship of the Northern Sun, the HMS Forward Unto Dawn._

* * *

_**Paris, France...**_

"You are serious?" Gabrielle asked sceptically as she gazed down at the annotated map resting atop a crate of boxes. She dearly wished she didn't have to always have these clandestine meetings in the middle of another basement, but regrettably her face was plastered on the news channels every chance they got in an attempt to get someone to turn her in. The price on her head had even exceeded the two hundred thousand francs milestone!

Price, looking just as unhappy being there — for different reasons — nodded, his combat webbing jostling ever so slightly from the movement. "We are," he confirmed, his glorious mustache bristling. Biting down on his cigar, he used his now free hand to point out the three red circles along the Normandy coast. "We're going back to classics. Main force lands here, here, and here. Rest of the ETO to follow."

"Does the ETO even _know_ about this?" Gabrielle asked, more stupefied by the idea that so many militaries had been able to coordinate this without _anything_ leaking out.

"They will, by the time it happens," Price said with a shrug. "Only reason you're being let in on it, princess, is because we need your contacts and people here ready to rise up when the boots hit the beaches."

Gabrielle glared at the soldier. "You are asking me to help you invade my country," she pointed out with a growl. "I may not agree with the government, but I am not about ready to betray my countrymen!"

Price shrugged, pulling out his cigar to blow out some smoke. "That's your decision, lass. But if you don't help, that's just fuel for the fire. There's many up in the North just looking for an excuse to bomb France into the stone age," he told her. "Even the moderates don't think we should trust you and yours. Seem to think it's much more cost-effective to bomb everything to rubble and sweep up whatever's left."

"France will fight back," Gabrielle growled.

"And ye'll lose," Price told her firmly. "It's been a year since the war with Germany's been over, and ye're all still lamentably slow in rebuilding your forces. No one wants to invest in a country that arbitrarily invaded another. It's bad for business. Meanwhile, us? We've been taking in every penny that's not gone into France, Germany, or the Chinese or Yanks. We're ready for this. You can either make it happen as smoothly as possible, or you can stand in the way and get swept aside."

Gabrielle growled throatily at the threat. "I'd like to see your King _try_," he dared.

Price actually chuckled at that, somewhat thankful his team wasn't sitting in on this conference, or else guns would have already been drawn. "The King? The King won't lift a finger and we'll still win," Price said with a smirk. "Lass...ye _met_ the King's successor on the field. Ye really think ye can go toe-to-toe with _him_?"

Gabrielle shivered instinctively, cursing herself for doing so. She remembered her little chat with Neville Longbottom — no, Wenshi, as he called himself these days. He was a powerful mage — _so powerful_...it frankly amazed her how far he'd come from being that chubby looking nice kid from Hogwarts. Could she fight him? Probably. Could she win...?

Gabrielle knew the answer.

"Whether or not we win, it would still be more honourable than just trading one dictatorship for another," she stated firmly, successfully managing to hide the instinctive swallow her throat did as she thought of their odds in battle. They would go down, but at least they'd go down fighting.

Price's smirk widened and he bit down on the cigar again. "I don't think ye understand," he said, amused. "We're not looking to colonize. Not entirely, anyway. If ye help the ETO out, we'll be willing to consider France at a later date for equal status."

Gabrielle narrowed her eyes. Equal status within the ETO? That sounded nice, but she was no fool — "at a later date" probably meant a decade of foreign occupation, if not more. Still, compared with the utter destruction of her country...

"I'll want that in writing," she told Price. "Make it legally binding, and you've got yourself a deal."

Gabrielle didn't care for the recognition or position of great power that such an agreement might bring her. For all she cared, she could vanish into the abyss of history once everything was over — all she wanted was revenge on the current government for what they'd done to her family, and for France to be once again in the hands of the just and lovers of liberty, as she'd been taught growing up.

Price smiled and extended a hand, his cigar back in his free hand. "Ye've got yerself a deal."

Shaking Price's hand, Gabrielle couldn't shake off the feeling that she'd just made a deal with the devil. Still, if this meant saving lives, she could ill afford to refuse the offer being extended by the Northern Sun. Ratting them out would bring her little profit either, considering she got most of her armaments and supplies from them, and the ETO could just bury her accusations by labeling her insane and psychopathic — which Redemption's actions could ill refute.

As quickly as she could without seeming too curt, she withdrew her hand and leaned back over the map, looking at the positions outlined by the Northern Sun's intelligence network. It was remarkably well informed, seeing as how she already counted many regiments of the French Army singled out for containment. From what she could deduce from the less obvious annotations, the Northern Sun had even planned out various contingencies regarding supply bases and critical airfields. They were truly leaving nothing to chance.

"If I'd said no, would you have found someone else?" she asked suddenly, keeping her eyes on the map.

"Yes," Price's answer was short and to the point. Little else needed to be said...and most of what that statement insinuated could be easily inferred.

No doubt a refusal on her part would've initiated some sort of contingency. Likely, Price had entire teams standing ready to effectively wipe out this hideout of hers and herself in it. If she had to hazard a guess, there would be numerous Military Mages at the ready to erect an Anti-Apparation and Anti-Portkey ward, and the Floo connection would've been cut.

"I understand," she said hollowly, her fists tightening on the table as she realized that she'd well and truly bound herself to the Northern Sun. "My men will do their part. We'll have Paris in disarray when you begin the push to the capital."

"And the landing sites?" Price asked calmly, as though he hadn't just pressured her into agreeing to treason.

"They're under another group's jurisdiction, as it were," she stated, pointing to a small town in the region. "Based there. The leader owes me a favour, so I'll get him to do it for us. Any troops move in that region, you'll know about it."

Price nodded, puffing out smoke as he gave her a pleased look. "And the southern approaches?"

"I'll make sure the groups there know not to fire at the Spanish Army," she stated through grated teeth. Just how many foreigners _would_ be invading her homeland?!

Price nodded, scratching his five-o-clock shadow before pointing at Paris. "Listen, Paris is the key here. We don't want a repeat of Spain, so make sure your guys know to nab as many of the top ranks of the government as possible," he told her firmly. "The quicker we finish this war, the better it is for everyone."

Gabrielle frowned as she pulled out another map and laid it over the national one. This new map was only of Paris, and she quickly circled the location of the presidential palace in red. "That's impossible," she told him simply. "The _Palais de l'Élysée_ is a fortress," she informed Price. "And since the war with Germany, the government has made access to it nigh impossible."

She pointed out the park at the back of the collection of buildings. "The only way in would be the park, but after we killed the Secretary General of the Communist Party, they replaced the steel grates there with concrete and brick. Nothing short of a bomb would get us in, and even if that worked, it's still about two hundred and fifty meters of open ground with minimal cover to get to the building. It's suicide," she summed up flatly.

Price was silent as Gabrielle informed him of this little problem. By all means, it did sound that grabbing the President of France and most of the government in one fell swoop would be a monumental task...not really within the scope of ability of a mere resistance group. "What if he were drawn out?"

Gabrielle scoffed, throwing her hands in the air. "Why would he? Unless the Northern Sun threatened to flatten the palace, his best shot at survival is to stay inside! Even if Paris came under attack, getting to the Palace would take monumental effort!" she pointed out.

"Paris fell before; it can fall again," Price told her.

Gabrielle looked at him askance. "The French Army won't fall for another Maginot Line, Captain," she informed him gravely. "Most of our armies are within a couple of hours from the capital. By train ride, they can be there in one. No blitzkrieg could punch a hole into those kinds of defenses."

Price mused over the situation with a frown. She wasn't wrong; as ideal as it would be to see the whole French nation crumble with one swift conquest of their capital, modern warfare pretty much scrapped that idea from the get go. As long as an army still stood, or a guerrilla resistance took up arms, the nation would never be secure, no matter how many cities fell.

Then again, the capture of Paris would serve as a crushing morale blow to the French regardless, especially if it was done with speed and, more importantly, was performed _despite_ the enormous defences the French had erected around the city.

But how? With the five armies standing guard around Paris — a little overzealous in his opinion — the odds of doing so would be minimal, at best.

"We'll figure out a way," he said with false confidence. Not only was that statement more hopeful than based in fact, he knew he'd have little part in its actual denouement; if anyone would figure out this riddle, it would be the MST and the brass.

His part, however, would be over the moment he handed in the sit-rep to his superiors.

* * *

_**August 15, 2016...**_

_**IRAQI CIVIL WAR OVER?**_

_MODERATES TO CLAIM VICTORY; ISLAMISTS ACCUSE ETO FORCES OF INTERFERENCE_

_**NBC**__, BAGHDAD — According to information leaking out of the Iraqi battlefields, there appears to be reason to expect the civil conflict to end soon. Analysts predict that the Moderate faction's victory there should be expected within a month or two, as the Democratic Council's forces continue to push their extremist opponents north of Tikrit into Iraqi Kurdistan, where, reports say, the moderates have gained favour with the locals by promising devolution of government to the often-repressed minorities living there._

_The conflict, already six years ongoing, started with the assassination of dictator Saddam Hussein following a vow on his part to conscript the magical persons within his country into the Iraqi Army. Mujahideen factions then conspired and carried out the assassination not only of the dictator, but of his sons as well, resulting in the power vacuum that has led to this war._

_However, the ongoing conflict reached a virtual stalemate five years in, leading to speculation that Iraq would, alongside many other similarly distressed nations in the Middle East and around the world, become a failed state. The entrance of the ETO into the conflict, however, served to dispel many of these fears as the first troop transports landed in Kuwait and quickly restored order in the Gulf state by assisting the beleaguered US forces already present. Following an agreement with the United States, the ETO then proceeded to move in their forces into Iraq, bolstering the moderate cause and finally breaking the stalemate._

_However, it is important to note that while the moderate faction is indeed expected to win the conflict, there is still no knowledge as to who will rule. The DCI, while united in its fight against the Mujahideen, is nonetheless made up of numerous groups, the largest of which is the Iraqi Movement, led by Anwar Adat._

* * *

_**Fort Drake, Kingdom of the Northern Sun...**_

The Paris Question, as it became known, haunted the military brass and Ministry of Science and Technology.

Disheartened by the report sent by Captain Price from Paris itself, many had begun to question the viability of a European invasion when such odds were stacked against them. Rather expecting the French forces to be equally dispersed around the country, the brass had failed to take into account that perhaps their enemy's own commanders had thought up of a contingency plan for the event of a Northern invasion.

At least, most of them did.

For Harry, there had never been any question that the French fight would be a tough one. Yes, he'd fostered a war between France and Germany to weaken them. Yes, he'd made sure the crazies remained in power to avoid seeing French Military Mages on the field. Yes, he'd bolstered numerous resistance groups to make life hell for the French government.

But none of that truly guaranteed a problem-free invasion. To have thought otherwise would have been the pinnacle of arrogance!

Both Speirs and Curtis shared in his tempered scepticism about the ease of the invasion. Only those who bought the Northern propaganda were truly surprised by the odds against their success. But, while the brass knew the fight had always been expected to be tough, they hardly despaired.

To them, it just meant that the plan had to be rearranged, fixed, and then incorporate a new solution to destroy the defenses they now knew were in place against them.

And that solution had a name: Operation SUCKERPUNCH.

The problem was, as with last time, that a great deal of people rather took exception to SUCKERPUNCH, for more than just moral reasons. Basically, the Northern Sun intended to do to their enemies what had been done to them in Manchester all those years ago and what they'd done to end the Civil War.

The detonation of High Yield Magical Bombs, or HYM Bombs.

Widely thought to have been all recovered and subsequently destroyed, the Northern military had in fact sequestered the devices within Fort Drake for thorough examination, with the brass ensuring that the Queen remained as far away as possible from the project, due to her moral reservations about deploying the devices.

Reservations Albert Hughes did not have.

Yet, for all of Hughes' whispering in the king's ear, Harry too found himself opposed to the usage of the HYM devices. Not out of some newly found moral ambivalence towards necessary sacrifices, but rather due to the _unnecessary_ death toll they wrought. Beyond its catastrophic magical shockwave, the devices as they were also caused a high-yield explosion, rendering the immediate surroundings into a crater.

And craters, Harry reminded his advisor, made for poor examples of magnanimity, as Cheetham Hill showed.

So the question all these years had been — how does one extricate the explosive part of the HYM devices and leave only the magical shockwave? Fuel Crystal energy had been ruled out, given that its entire purpose was to combust. And no spells known to the researchers had the ability to do no harm _and_ emit a magical shockwave.

...or was there?

"Patroni," Padma realized in a mumble as she lifted her head from her notes, unaware that a sticky post was still stuck to her forehead. Her fellow researchers, risen from their own intellectual desperation, looked to her curiously.

"Patro-what?" asked Neilson, one of the normals of the group. Ever since ATHENA, their little research group had been handpicked by the Queen to head up the HYM bomb project, given the brass' insistence that she herself have as little to do with it as possible.

"The _Patronus_ spell..." Dawlish mumbled half in explanation, half in incredulous revelation. He face palmed at his own lack of common sense. "_Of course_!"

"Anyone want to explain for the non-magic users of the group?" asked Barrymore as she gazed at the awing mages with an amused smirk.

"It's a spell meant to banish Dementors...you know, those hooded creeps who float about," Padma tried to explain. "It's totally non-harmful to other sentient beings."

"Those Nazgul looking fellas?" Neilson asked as he tried to recall the briefing on Dementors. As far as he knew, the laws of physics, biology, _and_ chemistry as they knew it would've railed at the very existence of an allegedly unkillable race of sentient beings able to literally _kiss_ the life out of you; still...there they freakin' were.

"That's the last time you're watching Lord of the Rings, James, but yes," Dawlish confirmed before looking to Padma. "Even so, you really think it could work? We'd have to store a ton of Patronus magic to match the original device's yield!"

"That's the great thing about Military Mages, Dawlish," she said with an impish grin, winking at him. "Military Mages are all about magnitude!"

"Innuendo aside," Dawlish stated flatly, rolling his eyes at Padma's dirty humor. "We still need a catalyst. It's all good to jam the device full of Patronus energy so as to make Albus Dumbledore's own Patronus look like a party favour, but it's hardly an area of effect spell. Even its most powerful iterations have a minimal blast radius, compared to what we need."

"What about Runic amplifications?" suggested Neilsen, never having imagined _those_ words would ever leave his mouth. "I heard NGS is developing body armour enhanced with runes."

Barrymore glanced at Dawlish. "They _are_ under government contract..."

Avery, for her part, closed her eyes and sat back as she pondered the issue, being the most familiar of the group with runic magic. "It _could_ work," she pronounced eventually. "Mixing magics is dangerous stuff, however, so any runic enhancement would have to be _carefully_ applied to each device."

"Isn't MJOLNIR also using runic magic?" Dawlish asked, looking towards Padma.

Said witch shrugged. "It's only rumours. Still, word is that the only reason the weapon's that powerful is because of runes enhancing the power of the magnets in the coilgun," she confided in her colleagues. "If that's true, and Avery's right, then we need to get on this ASAP. The sooner we get this sorted, the quicker they'll approve Stage Two of Project ATHENA."

The scientists nodded as they reminded themselves of their true desire — to improve the A.I.s beyond their current capabilities. Padma herself had heard that the Queen was also looking into this avenue of research, but while she'd only hinted at this by asking Padma and other scientists more about the A.I.s, she'd never made an actual overture for cooperative development.

Which left Padma with no choice but to push for an ATHENA-II project. Maybe _then_ the Queen would decide to share!

* * *

_**September 25, 2016...**_

_**BLACKOUTS IN BRITTANY**_

_FRENCH GOVERNMENT CLAIMS TERRORIST SABOTAGE_

_**NBC**__, RENNES — Strange blackouts have continued to hit the region of Brittany as more towns have been reported as succumbing to the same electrical failures that have already cut off all communications from the area around Saint-Brieuc._

_As with the original cases, the existence of these power outages first came to light after the authorities in Rennes realized that entire swathes of the region had fallen off the electrical grid, with communications — which by regulation includes cable-powered payphones in the event of emergencies such as this — being completely cut off as well. Attempts by the regional government in Rennes to send investigative teams met with the same problem as those sent in the initial outages, as vehicles suddenly stopped working within a substantial radius from the affected areas._

_As of yet, no explanations have been conclusively given to explain these strange occurrences, as neither electrical engineers nor any accredited scientists have been able to pinpoint the exact nature of the blackouts._

_To the government, however, the answer has been clear from the very first moment. Last night, a government spokesman announced the government's opinion that this was the work of magical terrorists, intending to bring down the government by depriving the central authorities of the benefits of modern technology._

_In response, Redemption has issued an open letter denouncing the blackouts in the event that they are, in fact, a plot to destabilize the government. Similarly, the ETO issued their own statement, echoed by most of the nations of the world, decrying the deprivation of technology as a cowardly tactic that affects those most vulnerable the harshest._

* * *

_**Fort Vigilance, Kingdom of the Northern Sun...**_

"Sector four is black."

"Sector six is black!"

"Sector five, all black."

"Target area is down, Advisor," the Chief Controller eventually confirmed as he looked towards the platform at the back of the mission control room. "Local intelligence reports one hundred percent non-FC-modified electronic failure."

Hughes nodded calmly from his seat, pleased with the test run of Operation SUCKERPUNCH. "And the populace?"

There was a pause as the Chief Controller relayed the query over his earpiece, then nodded as he received the relevant information. "Mass confusion for now," he relayed. "Those with immediate health risks have begun showing symptoms of their diseases now that the technological aides have collapsed."

Hughes nodded again, tapping a finger on his armrest. "Set up watches on the local police stations and hospitals. I want a consistent progress report on the social situation; I want to know exactly when and where the situation destabilizes, and I want to know where they first go for help."

"Of course, Advisor."

Hughes relaxed in his chair as the red dot that represented the newest area affected by the newly modified HYM devices pulsated repeatedly on the screen, alongside five other similar dots. While regrettable due to the loss of life, there had been no choice but to test run the devices within enemy territory due to the lack of viable space within the Northern Sun, what with its electrical grid having been fully replaced by its Fuel Crystal Energy analogue.

Deploying the HYM devices in the Middle East, where some of their allies were still fighting, had also been ruled out in consideration of long term strategy. If blackout bombs suddenly detonated there, and were then seen as happening just before the Northern Sun invaded the continent, then any idiot would manage to connect the dots.

Instead, it was better that the French think the blackouts to be a terrorist attack. More specifically, he wanted them to think the Death Eaters were behind this. Still mostly on the run, there would be no way for the rogue mages to deny the operation, nor would their word be taken at face value. Investigations would have to be launched, and in that time, the Northern Sun would conquer anyone who sought to destabilize its rise to power.

"Where's the report on Event Zero-Zero-Five?" he asked, only to have an aide quickly have it brought to him. Leaning forward, he rubbed his chin pensively as he read through the brief, flipping through its pages of sociological data. As predicted, the other four events prior to Event 005 had resulted in increased levels of mass fear and hysteria when 005 occurred.

And at the proportional rate it seemed to increase with every strike, there was a likelihood that the adverse psychological effects of a HYM strike would show up in this recent event — Event 006 — much quicker. In fact, as he flipped over to the official psychiatric opinion on the plan, he found his thoughts reflected in their words.

Smiling to himself, he handed the aide the report again before tapping his other armrest once. "Walsingham."

The ethereal orb of his personal A.I. appeared above the armrest's integrated projector. "_How may I be of service, Advisor?_" the orb asked, its data streams glowing with every word.

"Bring up the projections on SUCKERPUNCH, if you please," Hughes asked amiably, more than exhilarated with the amazing tools he now had at his disposal to ensure that the Northern Sun would never stop rising in power.

Within seconds, images were projected up into the air before him, charts and streams of data moving about in synchronized perfection as Walsingham narrated the conclusions of the projected results of SUCKERPUNCH.

"_Based on the data gathered during Events Zero Zero One through Zero Zero Five, projections for SUCKERPUNCH's efficacy have increased substantially, Advisor,_" Walsingham droned as, upon a flick of Hughes' wrist, the data shown was replaced by a map of France slowly getting engulfed in numerous expanding circles that represented the area of effect of each HYM device. "_This is due in part to a discovery made upon the firing of Event Zero Zero Two. The residual field of Zero Zero One having not yet dispersed, the shockwave of Zero Zero Two appears to have interacted with the residue and become magnified as a result. While the area of effect increase was minimal, our teams have theorized that this is due to the time lapse between the two events._"

Frowning, Hughes brought up the report on Event 002 and expanded on the size difference. A 1% increase in total circumference after having been detonated near Event 001's final fringe a full two days later.

"Two days for one percent...Walsingham, what percentage increase would occur if the shockwaves interacted within minutes of explosion?" he asked.

There was a pause as the A.I. ran the calculations, before the bright red number appeared blinking on the holographic screen. "_Approximately seventy-five percent, Advisor._"

"And within seconds?"

Another pause. "_Unknown, Advisor. My apologies_."

Hughes blinked. That was a first. Usually, Walsingham would just crunch out the numbers and give him an exact figure. For the first time, he'd actually managed to leave the A.I. at a loss. "I beg your pardon?"

"_Unfortunately, Advisor, it is impossible to calculate how two devices' shockwaves would interact with each other within seconds of being created without an actual test due to the unstable nature of the magic at that moment._" Walsingham explained. "_Following several minutes post-creation, the magical energy emitted has stabilized, allowing for more concrete observation._"

Hughes nodded, softly stroking his chin as he thought on this. As far as he knew, he could just take the seventy-percent increase and call it a day. After all, that _did_ mean much more coverage already, meaning in turn less bombs required. And they still had about twenty-one devices left over to tinker with.

Pressing a button to communicate with the Chief Controller, Hughes leaned over to make sure he'd be read loud and clear. "Chief Controller, please make sure that the next event include two devices instead of one, and place them in a position for optimal interaction between the two shockwaves. I want those devices to interact with each other in seconds, am I understood?"

There was a pause before the Chief Controller answered. "_Sir, with all due respect, there's no data on what such an event would look like, or what it could do...and the MST is expecting these tests to be run consistently for further lab development._"

"Chain of command states that my word is law in this operation, Chief Controller," Hughes reminded the man calmly. "See to it."

Another pause. "_...Yes, sir._"

Hughes knew his reputation amongst the rank and file wasn't all that good — and frankly, he couldn't care less. While the grunts judged him and his actions, Hughes knew he made the choices no one else would in order to safeguard the wonderful vision of the future that Harry would bring about, given the chance.

And it was Hughes' job to make sure that chance came about.

* * *

_**October 2, 2016...**_

_**TENSIONS ESCALATE BETWEEN FRANCE AND E.T.O.**_

_FRENCH ACCUSE E.T.O. OF LETTING TERRORIST ATTACKS ON FRENCH SOIL CONTINUE_

_**NBC**__, LIVERPOOL — In their latest media attack against the European Treaty Organization, spokespersons for the French Republic have accused the ETO of willfully withholding or not acting on information that may have prevented the devastating power outages gripping much of Brittany and western Normandy._

_French intelligence services, the Republic claims, have consistently observed periods of high activity within the E.T.O.'s intelligence communities exactly prior to each event, leading the government to "have no choice but to assume the E.T.O. knows more than it says it does," as the spokesman last night accused._

_The E.T.O., for its part, has issued a damning denial against the accusations leveled upon it, a move backed by its Middle Eastern allies. "The French are merely seeing the result of years of the government's political repression against its people and the mages," the statement reads. "And without a face to attribute to the attacks, it lashes out against the only organization it cannot control within Europe."_

_Regardless of the media attacks, every major nation in the world has since decried the attacks, calling for the perpetrators to stop their attacks as thousands of individuals vitally relying on technology have already passed away as a result of the loss of technology in the region._

* * *

_**Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun...**_

"SUCKERPUNCH _works_."

"So does a bomb!" Sirius snapped as he slammed his hand on the conference table. "That doesn't mean we should bomb every city _before_ declaring war!"

"We've had this debate before, Hughes!" Curtis intervened then, glaring at the man. "The vote was against, remember?"

Hughes merely shrugged. "That was then, this is now," he insisted before looking to Harry. "Your Majesty, the improvements made on the HYM device will ensure minimal collateral damage. We should not waste this opportunity to bring the rest of Europe to heel!"

"To heel?!" Sirius snapped again. "How about to _war?!_ Have you _any_ _idea_ what the sudden loss of technology will _do_ to the balance of power?!"

"Sirius is correct," Joshua added in as he frowned. "I've held my peace thus far, Advisor, but what you're suggesting is impossible to recover from, diplomatically speaking," he stated, running a hand through his thinning, greying hairline. "Nevermind the other nations...the _ETO_ will never condone such a move."

"And that's why it won't be us taking the fall for it," Xeno piped in, defending his political ally calmly. "I've already coordinated with the Advisor on this. If you give us the green light, we'll make sure the Death Eaters take the diplomatic and political fall for the event."

"No one's dumb enough to believe the Death Eaters are in _any_ condition to pull something like this off!" James cut in then, frowning at his colleague. "Not after the whipping they were handed when we invaded."

Xeno shrugged. "Anything can be possible, given enough resourcefulness. My agents are ready to spread the word."

"I agree with the Advisor's position," Speirs spoke up then, raising his hand to make his point before crossing them over his chest, frowning at the table. "As much as we've improved our military over the years, we need a real game changer to win SUNRISE relatively unscathed. Our troops might be better, our guns may fire farther, and our armies may move faster...but the invasion of France is no small feat. Between the projected resistance militias and the abilities of the standing commanders...we're still going to end up fighting any new challengers with one eye punched out of commission."

As the conference mulled this over, however, someone spoke up then that shocked the room and made a definite turn in the conversation.

"I agree with Advisor Hughes," Elicia said demurely, managing to grab the attention of everyone in debate, including her husband.

Never before had the Queen actually agreed with Hughes on these sorts of things. The Queen was considered, rightfully so, one of the moral pillars of the nation, and so for her to agree to a plan as morally dubious as SUCKERPUNCH was rather...unbelievable.

Almost instinctively, Sirius chanted a counter-spell to see if she'd been bewitched, despite knowing there were countless safeguards in place to ensure this never happened and that, if it did, people would be aware of it in seconds. As such, he was incredibly stunned to see that she'd made the decision to support Hughes of her own free will — after all, that he knew of, Katerina and her parents were all still very much alive and out of the hands of their enemies.

"M-Milady?" he breathed.

Elicia had the decency to look away. "As much as it pains me to say, SUCKERPUNCH may be, in fact, the route of least bloodshed," she stated sadly. "In the Death Eater campaign, bloodlust and vengeance served as the main motivators for the war, and our forces killed thousands in their debauchery. But here, at least, we have a path we can take which will not only save the lives of our men, but also those of the enemy's."

Hughes gave her usual allies no chance to try to change her mind as he pounced on the surprising support with glee. "That's right!" he agreed. "Think about the reports from Paris! Five armies, standing guard within hours of the capital! Their land and aerial infrastructure is not only modern, but has been upgraded during the war to deal with the logistics of multiple armies on the march! Technologically, they may be behind us, but not by much, and their vast experience ensures that whatever advantage we have will be a small one."

"Our soldiers are no rookies," Harry pointed out, speaking for the first time since the debate began and he'd opened the floor for discussion. As he spoke, however, he kept stealing glances towards his wife, still somewhat surprised by the sudden turn of events. "Nor are our commanders. We've had enough war to match their own."

"Perhaps," Hughes allowed, "But then we've only had to match ourselves against _one_ European power, and it was Spain," he pointed out rightly. "In every other conflict, we've fought against ourselves, or the Death Eaters. France, however, has taken on _Germany_ and won against a combined Austro-German force. That stands for something."

"Speirs?" queried Curtis as she glanced at the Head of the Armed Forces.

Said Field Marshal shifted uneasily and growled a bit before shrugging. "I wouldn't put it that way, but he's right."

Sirius was holding his head up with one hand now, his other curled into a frustrated fist on the table. "There _has_ to be another way," he pleaded, more to himself than anything. "We're talking about launching a preemptive strike to wipe out all technology!"

"Not all, just the unmodified non-FC tech," Xeno pointed out.

Sirius again slammed his fist in anger. "AND WHAT DO YOU THINK THAT'LL DO?!" he demanded, trembling in anger. "For goodness' sakes! Haven't you considered what the people will feel?! How they'll react when everything they know is taken from them?!"

"Humanity evolved without technology; they'll survive," Hughes assured him, untroubled by Sirius' outburst.

"And how long has it been since then?!" Sirius pressed. "For the past hundred years, we've been living of technology! Don't you remember what happened when the Manchester event happened? Or when the North lost power, before Her Majesty was able to devise the plans for the FCE powerplant?"

"It was utter bedlam," Joshua concurred, unhappy with this turn of events. "That's what we're unleashing on the civilian populace."

"It'll save them the hardship of having to endure a long war, and we can always provide others with modified technology, without giving away our secrets," Hughes insisted. "Compared to that, what's a few months without technology?"

Sirius glared at his political rival. "I'll hold you to that, Hughes."

* * *

_**November 1, 2016...**_

_**DARKNESS UPON EUROPE!**_

_THOUSANDS DEAD!_

_**NBC**__, THE HAGUE — In an unprecedented attack that will forever live in infamy in the collective memory of the human race, numerous explosive devices were detonated yesterday, October 31st, 2016, throughout Europe and, sources report, other parts of the world, finally revealing to the world the cause and perpetrators of the blackouts that have plagued France in recent months._

_Sources close to the integrated militaries of the European Treaty Organization have come forth indicating that, in the pursuit of a trail of evidence recently found, intelligence agents have uncovered that the blackouts in France were, in fact, test runs of explosive devices whose sole intent is the destruction of technology. Devices, it has since been discovered, that were in the hands of the Death Eater Remnant, the extremist pro-magical terrorist group that plagued the United Kingdom and the Northern Sun in years past. These devices, while not pyrotechnic in nature, have nonetheless managed to cause a Europe-wide blackout with one notable exception — the ETO._

_According to an ETO spokesman during the questions period of the press conference called in the wake of the attacks — the only one of its kind, with the rest of Europe wallowing in darkness — the ETO announced that the reason for this has been the Northern Sun's consistent policy of developing new magically integrated technology, allowing the nation and its ETO allies to accidentally, it seems, shield themselves from most of the effects of the devices, ten of which were reported to have detonated within its borders._

"_Our hearts go out to the victims of this horrible travesty," said His Grace, the Duke of Warwick, Minister of Foreign Affairs for the Northern Sun and Representative of the ETO to the European nations. "We will naturally be offering every assistance possible to those who now live in fear and in the darkness. Worry not — we have not forgotten you."_

* * *

_**November 25, 2016...**_

_**FRANCE ACCUSES NORTHERN SUN OF EXTORTION**_

_DEMAND THE UNCONDITIONAL RELEASE OF ALL MAGICALLY INTEGRATED TECHNOLOGY_

_**NBC**__, PARIS — As the tragedy of the Halloween Attacks continues to unfold, the Republic of France has issued a damning statement accusing the Northern Sun of extorting the victims of the catastrophe by not unilaterally making public all of its magically-integrated technology._

_The President of France, speaking for the first time in public since the attacks using Northern-provided equipment, has called upon the Northern Sun to "cease profiteering off of the despair and terror of the innocent" and "release all the shielded technology devised...free of charge."_

_In response, the Minister of Foreign Affairs for the Northern Sun, His Grace, the Duke Warwick, has announced that the Northern government would not comply. "For years now, France has allowed itself to demean, ostracize, and sideline any and all discussion, development, and/or progress of the magical arts. It has called into question the honour and right to exist of the Northern Sun innumerable times, and has time and again refused to even recognize the legitimacy of the King's claim to the Northern throne."_

"_And yet," the Minister continues to say. "The moment it sees the fruit of its policies fail to live up to its expectations, it demands we hand over the hard, tireless work of thousands of our brightest minds for nothing...so that what? It can then use it against the ETO and the Northern Sun?"_

_While the Duke's comments have raised some controversy, particularly amongst humanitarian groups which have called for such political cynicism to be put aside in this grave time of need, the E.T.O. has issued a formal statement backing the Northern Sun's position on the matter, calling upon nations to remember that the French Republic once started a war with Germany over the flimsiest of pretenses. "As such," it claims, "there is no reason to trust that the technology will fall into the right hands."_

_In the United States, which has seen every major metropolis hit by the devices, the internal conflict between the fundamentalist factions and the government has reached a new peak level as troops have been forced to be recalled to major cities to quell potential civil disorder and disperse anti-government militias known to have risen up in arms as soon as all contact with the central authorities in Washington D.C. was lost._

_In China, the loss of Beijing has caused a major blow to the regional markets and internal national stability as each major nation in the region has had its capital struck with a similar device, each time pointing to a major, global conspiracy to cripple those governments which have sought the regulation of mages and the persecution of what appears to be extremist mage factions._

* * *

_**December 15, 2016...**_

_**WAR IN EUROPE?**_

_FRANCE ISSUES ULTIMATUM: HAND OVER TECHNOLOGY OR FACE WAR_

_**NBC**__, PARIS — Despite the lack of power still pervading throughout most of Paris and the over 90% of the country, the French government has escalated the diplomatic standoff between the European Treaty Organization and itself by declaring that its armies — still affected by the loss of practically all of its technology — would be mobilized unless the Northern Sun agrees to a unilateral surrender of its magically-integrated technologies._

_When asked about the viability of a technologically deprived army facing off with the combined might of the ETO, the French President assured those present that France might have been hurt, but it was not bowed. "France is not just a nation in Europe," he said at the press conference. "It is a nation of freedom found in the Americas. In Africa. In Asia."_

_Referring to France's overseas departments, the French president continued on to state that a large stockpile of arms was set up in these territories in case of another situation where the French people might be forced to flee and subsequently liberate their own country once again._

_Despite widespread scepticism as to the magnitude of such a stockpile being relevant to any war with the ETO, the President was adamant that France could not negotiate with a nation that the government is convinced had a hand in the deployment of the bombs that shrouded the world in darkness, even if it had been a passive part. Analysts, however, have pointed out that numerous areas of the ETO's territories had been hit by the devices, as the implementation of Northern technology was never considered a priority within the ETO._

* * *

_**December 25, 2016...**_

_**NORTHERN SUN SAYS NO**_

_WILL FRANCE DECLARE WAR?_

_**NBC**__, LIVERPOOL — Amidst the fifth annual celebrations of the birth of the Kingdom of the Northern Sun, His Majesty King Henry I announced in a highly anticipated speech that the Northern Sun would not be cowed by the French government._

"_The Northern Sun did not fight a Civil War and a war against the Death Eaters only to have its foreign policy dictated by the French elite," the King stated. "The French President asked of us whether we would surrender the fruits of our efforts; of our toil and tears? He can now have our answer: No. A thousand times no. If the Republic wants to slap away our helping hand and steal what is ours by right, it will have to come and take it from our cold, dead hands."_

_While the speech was well received amongst the general public of the Northern Sun and its ETO allies, humanitarian groups have complained that the belligerent tone of the King's speech have simply added fuel to growing tensions as Europe edges closer to another war._

"_We can understand the King's position and that of the Northern Sun," insists James MacAvoy, leader of Europeans United, a humanitarian foundation created to help victims of the Franco-German conflict. "But there is no need to push the French into war. Negotiation is the only acceptable path."_

_Other groups have criticized what they see as ETO hypocrisy. "If the Northern Sun and their cronies really wanted to help out, why haven't they just come in and fixed things?" asks Marie Delarue, a native of Provence and member of the Front Nationale. "I'll tell you why: because they'd rather get a penny in their pockets than help for free!"_

_Legal analysts, however, have sided with the Northern Sun and the ETO in the dispute, claiming that forcing nations to share technology unilaterally without compensation would effectively establish a precedent whereby all technology could be liable to such unregulated dispersion, thereby establishing a considerable risk of military-grade technology reaching the hands of violent groups._

* * *

_**January 31, 2017...**_

_**WAR**_

_FRANCE DECLARES WAR ON NORTHERN SUN; E.T.O. RETALIATES WITH OWN DECLARATION_

_**NBC**__, THE HAGUE — Following many weeks of increasing tensions, the government of France has declared war on the Kingdom of the Northern Sun._

_The declaration, delivered by radio address by the President of France to the general population minutes before the Northern-donated equipment inexplicably failed, accuses the Northern Sun of having forced the government's hand in the affair due to their obstinacy in refusing to hand over the critical technologies needed to safeguard the welfare of the people._

_The declaration, however, was met with fierce condemnation on part of most of the European nations, with Germany and Russia calling the act unprovoked and unjustifiable._

"_France is not alone in its suffering," reminds Albert Strauss, spokesman for the Citizens United humanitarian group within Germany. "Most of Germany remains under blackout, but the government has since sought the aid of the ETO and other unaffected nations in rebuilding its destroyed infrastructure."_

"_This war is illegal," argues, on the other hand, Dimitri Zakhaev, member of the right-wing One Russia political party. "And a sign of French bullying. Has the Northern Sun failed to help others in a timely fashion? Yes. Should it be castigated for its reticence to help its fellow man? Yes. But should thousands suffer for the mistakes of the few? No."_

_The European Treaty Organization, for its part, has since issued its own declaration of hostilities against the French Republic, following a series of harshly worded recriminations towards the Republic for insisting on breaking the peace._

"_The Northern Sun has been a leader of nations and a pioneer in mage-normal relations," the declaration reads. "And that its success has fallen prey to the envy of lesser men is unfortunate but inevitable. However, when in times of great crisis to all sentient races worldwide, these very same insist on plunging the continent into war, it is the duty of those who pledged their allegiance to the cause of a United Europe to resist these misguided men and restore order and peace to the continent."_

* * *

_**Fort Vanguard, Kingdom of the Northern Sun...**_

This was it.

The moment Harry had been predicting for years now; the moment when the Northern Sun would _finally_ take its place at the helm of Europe!

As the continent made ready to rip itself apart once more, the Northern Sun rose from its sleep on that day already ready, having been preparing itself for this conflict for nearly seven years. While France and Germany tore at each other's throats, the Northern Sun had manufactured weapons, ammunition, and combat vehicles. While the other nations grew crops to feed its people through the year, the Northern Sun's magically-enhanced yields were stored away for the war.

While Europe toiled away at diplomatic games intent on rebalancing a fictional balance of power, the Northern Sun had been inventing new ways to supplant it with its own.

And the results showed.

When dawn broke and the news was spread to every corner of the Northern Sun, its people were hardly taken aback. Its armies were not found sleeping in their bunks, but were rather already formed up in perfect formations in their mustering grounds. Almost overnight, propaganda to support the war began being unfurled as pundits and talk show hosts rallied the more uncertain of the people to the cause.

And, at Fort Vanguard, Neville readied himself for quite possibly the greatest moment of his career.

"General, all infantry regiments are reporting full readiness," one of his radiomen announced as he remained still and calm in the middle of the storm of activity that was his office. "Mechanized regiments expected to be at full readiness within half an hour."

"Right on schedule," Neville heard another aide mumble as they started tapping in the data such that the digitized map of the theatre of war remained fully updated as to the status of every known factor in the war.

"I need a report on the status of General Wood's Airborne division," Neville ordered as he considered the map carefully. So far, Wood's icon seemed to remain within the confines of Chemlsford Air Base. "And a sit-rep on VANGUARD's readiness."

There was a flurry of activity as his staff gathered the information as quickly as they could for him. Meanwhile, Neville examined the expected French forces on the map. As Price's report indicated, the French had amassed their five armies in very strategic points near railways that could easily transport them to the capital. The loss of technology, in this case, had hardly put a dent in that plan, as the modern trains were simply replaced with older locomotives. Sure, they ran slower, but it would still get them to the front lines quickly.

"VANGUARD is fully operational and awaiting use, General!" announced one aide at last. Without looking, Neville pointed towards the man.

"Inform Dutch High Command of the arrival of the first contingent, then," he ordered. "Tell General Fikse to mobilize his forces to the Belgian-French border, link up with General Dubois, and hold the line until our forces arrive."

"Luxembourg High Command, General!" another comm officer reported. "General Achen is asking for aid; it appears the French Second Army is moving to neutralize Luxembourg sooner than expected!"

Sooner than expected for some, Neville didn't say. "Inform Austrian High Command of the matter. Contingencies have already been planned out for the situation. Tell General Achen to coordinate with Austrian High Command while we relieve pressure from the north."

"Yes, sir!"

"Sir, General Wood's Airborne Division is reporting full readiness!" another aide finally reported. "It appears one of the planes seemed to have a mechanical defect found at the last minute. Everything's fine and waiting for the order now, sir!"

Neville nodded. "Give it. Tell Wood to remember to skirt the towns and head straight for Caen," he ordered. "With power out, it's the best moment to take the city and open up the beaches for Stage Two."

"Yes, sir!"

"Sit-Rep on Stage Two!" he shouted next, eyes still fixed on the ever changing situation being reflected on the map.

"Navy says they've already sunk more than a dozen transports coming to France!" announced their liaison. "Blockade operations begun throughout the southern coast. _Forward Unto Dawn_ is heading that op! Troop transports say they're ready to go whenever!"

Neville snorted. Good to know Admiral West had decided to fight from the front lines.

"Air Force!" he demanded.

"Air Marshal Dalton reports escort wings for General Wood's Airborne Division is airborne, sir!" announced their liaison with the Air Force as he kept one half of a set of headphones placed against his left ear. "Bombing runs expected to start within the hour."

"Sir, Admiral West is reporting skirmishes along the southern coast — French Navy."

"Engage at will; destroy all of them," Neville ordered.

"Yes, sir; _HMS Forward Unto Dawn_, this is Victor Hotel Quebec; engage at will. Say again, engage at will."

Already, the satellite-transmitted information from the engagements along the coast was being reflected in the digitized map. In an instant, it seemed like the biggest of the French ships was simply...gone.

"Good grief," Neville mumbled with a tolerant smile, shaking his head. No doubt West had opted to give her MJOLNIR superguns its first combat test. And from the looks of things, it was doing quite well.

"First contingent starting transport procedure, sir!" announced one of the officers in charge of monitoring the VANGUARD operation.

Neville smiled tightly. "Excellent. Maintain Generals Fikse and Dubois apprised of their status," he ordered before turning to one of the men he knew was monitoring the status of the armies still awaiting deployment. "Spanish force, report!"

"Spanish army is mobilizing, General!" announced the appropriate liaison. "General Ruiz-Perez is currently leading the army towards the Pyrenees. Spanish Air Force have begun bombing runs to clear the passage!"

"And its navy?" Neville pressed.

"Blockading the pass of Gibraltar and initiating raiding operations along the western French coast, General!"

Neville nodded in satisfaction. Despite the animosity the British and Spanish had shared, culminating in a bloody war, it seemed the Spanish had kept their word. Still, there were no illusions that the Spanish Army, or even those of any of the Northern Sun's allies, would be much of a game changer. Despite its alliance with the Northern Sun, Spain remained a third-tier power due to the brutal losses it suffered during the Anglo-Spanish War.

The Benelux armies, for their part, were brave and well equipped with Northern gear, but were hardly a match for the French armies, numerically speaking. Even without most of their technology, the French would still put up a stiff fight.

Ireland and, perhaps, Austria were the only nations with an army that _could_ make something of a difference. While not much expectation was placed on Austria, due to its physical distance from the remainder of the ETO, the Irish Republic had been keen to stake its place as an equal to the other member states of the ETO, and had pledged numerous Irish regiments to the war.

As a result, many of the forces that would lead the fight through VANGUARD were, in fact, Irish regiments.

"VANGUARD estimates full transportation of the first contingent within half an hour, General," announced the appropriate comm officer.

Neville smiled. That feeling was washing over him again — the feeling that the moment for the Northern Sun to seize the reins of Europe had finally come.

With VANGUARD to pierce the enemy while it was most vulnerable, HAVOC to outclass their foes, MJOLNIR to bring the fire down on their enemies, and ATHENA to help coordinate the whole thing...Neville was sure of it.

The dawn of the European Empire was upon them.

* * *

_**Post-AN:** CLARIFICATION NOTES ARE CLARIFYING!_

_NBC - just as a reminder, this stands for Northern Broadcast Service, NOT National Broadcast Service of our reality._

_E.T.O. - The Northern Sun's equivalent to the EU, but thoroughly under their thumb. This gives them strategic allies and facilitates their conquest of Europe._

_SUCKERPUNCH - Wasn't sure about going through with it, but figured the technological blackout (which will last only for most of the French War) would be a good reason for which the other European nations and world powers quickly innovate to catch up to the Northern Sun (beyond seeing the French getting their asses kicked in every battle by superior tech; which isn't really that feasible or desirable)._

_Veteran Soldier Readers - Esteemed men at arms (or enthusiasts, or both)! If you find a problem within this chapter (or any of them, really) regarding procedure, callsigns, parlance, etc...PLEASE LET ME KNOW. I crave moar knowledge!_

_Cheers,_

_-MB_

_PS: If any of you happen to be, or were part of, the military police of any armed forces, I would LOVE to pick your brain for another (original) project I'm working on!_


	25. Chapter XX: The Battle of Caen

_**AN: **Alrighty, so...first off: Happy New Year's! Woo! The world did not end! Yay us!_

_Secondly, I'd like to thank Ray, a US Army veteran, and I-Am-Silence, a Canadian veteran, who were a huge help in writing this chapter, and I hope agree to continue our working relationship in helping me develop future chapters._

_Thirdly, this chapter is Harry-light, focusing more on the actual war. He'll be back in the next chapter, though!_

_Cheers,_

_MB_

* * *

_**VANGUARD Army Main Operating Base "Olympus", Brussels, Belgium, February 2, 2017 (D-Day +2)...**_

The line had held.

As the combined forces of the European Treaty Organization mobilized for war, there had been a great sense of uncertainty amongst Northern High Command about how dependable their allies would be in this war. Even with the best of intentions, there was no guarantee that they would be able to push hard against the French, much less keep them at bay.

All of those sceptics were now thoroughly glad to be wrong.

As Operation VANGUARD went underway, the Dutch and Belgian armies had marshalled their forces along the Franco-Belgian border, lamentably restricted from helping their Luxembourgian allies for now as a substantial French contingent marched on the Benelux to push them out of the war early on.

Not that the Northern Sun had forgotten its brave Luxembourgian allies; immediately upon receiving the news of the impending French invasion, Northern High Command, under the direction of General Neville Longbottom, quickly called on the Austrians to honor the Treaty by coming to the aid of Luxembourg. The result was numerous paratrooper contingents dropping over the tiny country and assisting in operations against the technologically-deprived French armies.

But of all the initial actions, the most effective one was without a doubt the result of Operation VANGUARD.

Ten thousand men, vehicles, and supplies mass-transported over the Channel into the Netherlands in a matter of two hours.

Using two hundred massive point-to-point Floo platforms set up on either end of the VANGUARD system, the Northern Sun deployed its forward elements with a speed unmatched in human history, its troops quickly relieving the besieged Dutch and Belgian forces and taking the French attackers completely by surprise.

Unfortunately for the French, the surprise didn't end there.

Soon after the French push towards Mons and Brugges had stalled, their what few communication devices they had left was full of chatter as Airborne divisions from the Northern Sun began landing practically unopposed along the Normandy region. Already, Caen had been partially occupied by the Northern paratroopers, as the French garrison forces, deprived of anything that used electricity, were forced to rely on primitive communications to try and coordinate a defence — with little luck. Only the timely arrival of reinforcements had prevented Caen from being lost wholly.

With the initial blows of the war delivered, however, it was finally time for the Northern Sun to unveil the rest of its plans. Set up in a camp in the process of being built on the outskirts of the city, Neville and the rest of the ETO brass in charge of the initial invasion convened to discuss strategy, amidst the ongoing raucous of engineers installing screens and setting up the appropriate wirework.

"Here."

Neville pressed his gloved finger onto the digital map where the Principality of Andorra lay, causing the location to emit a small blip and a white marker to appear. "General Ruiz-Perez has already informed me that a small portion of his Spanish forces are beginning their assault on Andorra," he shifted his finger to the west. Another dot appeared. "On Bayonne." Again, he shifted his finger, this time west, and an appropriate dot appeared again. "And Perpignan. The assault on the latter two is to be supported by our Navy while the Second Army launches an amphibious assault on La Rochelle once Stage Two is a go."

Nods greeted his strategy, as the combined highest ranking officers of the Dutch, Belgian, Austrian, and Luxembourgian armies conferred with him. He'd been surprised at how amenable they'd been towards his taking command of the campaign; all of them were visibly older than he was, and had the look of trained and experienced soldiers, after all.

"With respect, General, what about Luxembourg?" his Luxembourgian colleague asked, quite worried. "Even with the help of our Austrian friends," he nodded gratefully to the Austrian general, who answered in kind. "We will still be overwhelmed by the French shortly. We simply do not have the manpower to hold them at bay!"

"The key to that offensive is Thionville, General," General Dubois pointed out to Neville, zooming out the regional image and focusing the map on the Luxembourgian border region, before setting his finger on the map at the appropriate location. "If you can somehow threaten that city, I think we can assume the French will withdraw from their attack on Luxembourg."

"That risks spreading the VANGUARD force thin," General Fikse noted worriedly. "Could Austria not donate more troops?" he asked his Austrian colleague.

General Friedrich Haas shook his head. "As much as we would like to help further, the French war with _Deutschland_ depleted much of our standing forces."

Neville frowned as he leaned over the digital map, looking at the different icons that indicated military positions, forces, and targets. As much as he wished to keep the VANGUARD force relatively together, he also knew that having Luxembourg knocked out this early on would serve as a major morale and credibility blow to the Northern Sun. "There is no choice, then. We'll dispatch a contingent of VANGUARD troops to raid Thionville. With luck, the threat of being cut off will make them retreat back behind their own borders."

"The rest of our forces will proceed west as planned," he then put his hand vertically on the map and slid it west to punctuate his words. A large, red arrow materialized on the map and swept along the path of his hand. "We _must_ take Calais, Dunkirk, and Lille in order to allow our reinforcements to arrive close to the battlefields. It is too inefficient to unload them in Knokke-Heist or Antwerp, and would allow the enemy to regroup and provide stiffer resistance along the Belgian border."

Again, nods greeted his words. Glad to see his colleagues would not dispute the unspoken chain of command, where the Northern Sun dictated every move, he ploughed on. "General Dubois, your forces will skirt Dunkirk and make for Calais. This will cause the defenders at Dunkirk to believe that Calais must be reinforced and will hopefully weaken the local garrison while we launch a subsequent attack on Dunkirk. General Fikse, that's yours."

The Dutch general saluted at the order. "Understood."

Neville then glanced at Achen, his Luxembourgian counterpart. "General, once the French assault subsides, I want your forces raiding south to link up with the overland Austrian reinforcements and then make a combined push towards Strasbourg."

"What about the French garrisons in Germany?" piped up Haas, frowning. "That's quite a bit of manpower gnarling at our backs like a pack of wolves."

"The idea is to lock out the French border, General," Neville reminded him. "If we can do that, elements within the occupied German territories have already promised to rise against the French garrisons. Meanwhile, their technological blackout will severely delay their mobilization."

"And Rheims, General?" asked Dubois. "Shouldn't we attempt to capture it, at least?"

Neville sorely wished they could, but knew why such a thing wasn't feasible at the moment. While formerly a jewel of the French nation, Rheims' value at this point was not so much strategic as it was symbolic, which meant it wasn't a priority target for the invasion. Right now, it was far more important to secure the Normandy region for the arrival of the main invasion force.

"Rheims will fall in due time, General," Neville answered briefly. "Right now, Normandy is the prize. With all that needs doing, I dare say we'll already have quite a bit of trouble getting it done on time."

He then glanced at the map and checked the time stamp for the date and time. "Stage Two is planned to begin in a week, at latest. We have till then to secure, or at least neutralize our targets," he informed his colleagues. "It is _imperative_, Generals, that the targets be seized. Last time Normandy got invaded, there needed to be a three-week build up before Operation Cobra got the Allied forces out of the beachhead. We _don't_ want that happening this time around."

"With respect, General," Fikse spoke up then, looking like an old school teacher who'd just heard his favourite student say something incredibly naive. "The best laid plans usually don't last."

Neville nodded curtly as he leaned onto the table and gazed down at the map of France. Even on paper, the sheer magnitude of the enterprise they were embarking on seemed beyond comprehension. Sure, it'd been done before, but not many of those who'd been around for and participated in that particular event remained alive.

So here he was, set at the forefront of the perhaps the third greatest amphibious assault in military history, after Operation Downfall and Operation Overlord, and he could scarcely believe what he had to achieve in so little time before the rest of the Northern Sun followed his lead into France.

If he failed...then not only would more Northerners die on the beachheads than were necessary, but the success of the invasions would be put at risk, as a failure to land the main invasion force in Normandy would allow French forces to coordinate a better resistance against the minor invasions at La Rochelle, Strasbourg, Bayonne, Andorra, and Perpignan.

This was not something he could allow.

"I understand that, General, but failure is not an option in this case," Neville stated firmly. "To that end, I am authorizing the deployment of Military Mages with each assault force to facilitate the capture or neutralization of each target. While I expect you all to exercise restraint, the Northern Sun is authorizing their battlefield deployment at your discretion."

That was no small statement. The Northern Sun's Military Mages were infamous throughout the world for their service in the Anglo-Spanish War, the Civil War, and the Death Eater War. More frightening was the fact that ever since the first Military Mage became King, their quality and abilities on the field had jumped considerably as new regulations and training regimens were put into place to avoid the mass destruction they had caused during the latter half of the Spanish conflict. Even now, despite being ETO members, the Spanish usually approached the idea of forming Military Mages with reticence, as most of the population there still remembered with utter terror the havoc the British mages had caused.

Nonetheless, part of the ETO's formation treaty demanded that each member state undo the numerous pieces of legislation that had actively oppressed the mages, should any have been enacted. However, rather than just give the mages free reign, the ETO also took from the Northern Sun its approach to the issue by implementing ETO-wide registration schemes, such that each member nation would have access to the records of any mage citizen to ensure that no Dark Mages or the like would ever slip past the radar.

That meant that while not every member nation had their own versions of the Military Mages — Austria, in fact, being the only ones who'd recently started such a program, under direct Northern supervision — all of them knew _exactly_ what the Northern Sun had to offer in that respect.

Either way, they all knew that for the Northern Sun to grant usage of their prized mages in battle under the orders of their allies was a huge event, such that they now understood that the North wasn't so much _asking_ them to take their targets as they were _telling_ them to do it.

"France must come to heel quickly," Neville reiterated firmly as he held eye contact with each general in turn. "And the key to that is Normandy once more. Get to it, gentlemen, and good luck."

* * *

_**Operation Cobra, Over Caen, France, February 4, 2017 (D-Day +4)...**_

"Reaching drop zone in ten minutes!"

Oliver nodded to the Jump Master, who'd been in constant communication with the pilots up front. Looking back at his handpicked section, he made a mental headcount before nodding at them and tapping his earpiece to open comms.

"Alright, lads, ten minutes to DZ so PUCKER UP!" he ordered them, pleased to see his handpicked section had managed to deal with their nerves somewhat constructively. A few had brought out rosaries and other religious items, lighters or other knickknacks (no doubt of some sentimental importance)...but none had collapsed under the pressure, for which he was glad, considering that they were about to drop into an active combat zone.

Caen may have been halfway taken, but halfway just meant someone had fucked up (and that someone was now facing a summary discharge for incompetence, if Oliver had anything to say about it!), and the Northern Army would need the entire city under their firm control to be assured of the mobility of their forces throughout Normandy. A ground push was out of the goddamn question, considering their opponents had hunkered down along the opposite side of the river, forcing the Northern paratroopers to either brave the few narrow bridges or find another way across.

Oliver had wisely opted for the latter option.

Knowing that in the initial drop they'd managed to secure the nearby Carpiquet Airport, he'd called in for aircraft to let his men perform another drop over the river while the Air Force and groundside paratroopers kept the French defenders busy. It'd be risky as hell, considering how close the airfield was to the arguably antiquated non-electronic Anti-Air guns the French had somehow managed to dig up from goodness knows where, but it beat a ground push against an entrenched enemy position.

"Five minutes!" he heard the Jump Master tell him over the comm. As soon as he did, Oliver felt the plane start its backwards turn as it headed back towards the southern side of Caen. As close as the airfield had been to the battlezone, it would have been nearly suicidal to attempt a drop by just flying right for the drop zone as soon as the planes got airborne.

Turning to his men, Oliver rose his left hand and held out all five fingers. "FIVE MINUTES! STAND UP!"

As in sync as possible, the men quickly withdrew their trinkets and rose to their feet, assembling near the rear of the cargo hold, while the Jump Master checked the consoles for any problems in the plane's cargo hold systems. Oliver marched past his assembled section — in truth made up of two — and then stood at the forefront of the column, looking back at them. Raising his own parachute hook, he called out, "HOOK UP!" before actually doing so himself, promptly followed by his men.

Then, patting his chest, he called out, "EQUIPMENT CHECK!"

As they patted themselves down and made sure their weapons were in functional order, Oliver preoccupied himself with the details of the upcoming operation. Taking a page from VANGUARD, Oliver had opted for a three prong attack in order to keep the French as strung out as possible, especially given the sub-par equipment they were using — and arguably using to great effect, considering they'd managed to stop the Northern paratroopers from capturing the southern half of the city.

One prong would be the groundside assault, to be supported by armoured personnel carriers and whatever light tanks the Air Force had the time to land at the airfield in between the air raids the preliminary stage to the main invasion demanded of them. To facilitate their crossing, Oliver had requisitioned ten military mages in order to have them transfigure bridges for the soldiers to outflank the enemy positions.

The second prong was an air assault. Three dozen Westland Apache assault helicopters effectively launching a constant barrage of Hellfire missile and chaingun fire at the river bank and AA gun positions — which, considering they lacked any of the technical niceties that modern helicopters had protected themselves from meant they were now deadlier than _hell_ — in anticipation of the Airborne drop and as support for the first prong, in the hopes that perhaps they wouldn't get shredded crossing the damned river. While this happened, and if they were _very_ lucky, the Lynx troop transports would then move in and attempt to secure forward positions in anticipation of the ground assault.

And the third, naturally, was his prong, the rear-flank High-Altitude Low-Opening (HALO) jump. While still a General of the Northern Army, and thus supposedly disqualified from ever setting foot on a battlefield ever again, or until he got sufficiently demoted, Wood had taken inspiration from the actions of his more (in)famous colleagues, Neville Longbottom, William Swift, and Alexander Humboldt by taking to the field as well — though he was arguably ignoring the fact that none of the three men had actually been on the field of battle by their own design, having been victims of an ambush.

It had rattled a few cages, sure, but after the enormous cock-up that resulted in half the city still being in enemy hands, there was no way in _hell_ he was delegating this op anymore.

In any case, the very fact that he was in the air right now probably meant that the first stage of the attack, the groundside and air assault, was already well underway. Switching channels to the main battle feed, he was almost immediately blasted with incessant chatter as units coordinated with each other according to plan. He grimaced as he heard the dying words of a chopper crew just before it was brought down by an AA gun.

AA guns which, while regrettably targeting his boys groundside, were no longer trained on his paratroopers.

"ONE MINUTE TO DZ!" the Jump Master shouted over before running his hands over the controls to the rear hatch, even as the buzzer sounded and the cargo light began blinking green. Quickly, he put on his breather mask as the section and Oliver donned their tactical helmets, which were thankfully linked up to an oxygen tank. "OPENING HATCH!"

Oliver nodded before looking over to his men and grasping at the steel bar overhead. "HOLD STEADY!" he ordered over the roaring noise of the motors, now plainly audible as the hatch slid open, also allowing in the horrible sound of rushing wind to pierce his ears. Fortunately, every man of his was either a veteran of the British paras, or was trained enough to know how to hold their ground in the face of such decompression, however gradual.

A hand signal from the Jump Master told him they were at 30 seconds. "THIRTY SECONDS!" he shouted out to his men. "SOUND OFF READY!"

"SIXTEEN READY!"

"FIFTEEN READY!"

"FOURTEEN READY!"

And so on it went as the two sections sounded off, patting the man in front of them on the shoulder to indicate readiness. As the final sound off was called at "TWO READY!", Oliver nodded and shouted out his own, "ONE READY! ALL READY!"

"DZ Reached!" the Jump Master shouted, just as the buzzer sounded again, this time the light going full green. "GO, GO, GO!"

Oliver gave his men a nod before turning towards the hatch. "Feet first into hell, lads! URA!" he shouted before jumping off the plane, soon followed by the war cries of his men and their physical selves soon after as the sixteen men jumped to the awaiting abyss beneath them.

To Oliver, it was like being back in school, playing for the House Team, except this time around he had no broom and was quite literally falling to his death if not for the parachute in latched onto his back. Oh, sure, he could've just jumped out with a broom, but what kind of leader would he have been if he was the only one who could actually fly down in a controlled descent while his men depended on a thin sheet of cloth to brace their fall?

And there was, of course, the small detail that this wouldn't be his first jump. Between preparing for the actual campaign and the initial jump into Caen, Oliver was now getting used to the feel of freefall, and however disconcerting it still felt to him, he found himself growing accustomed to ignoring that feeling.

Still, nothing quite prepared him for the sight of seeing the battlefield of Caen awaiting him once he and his men broke through the cloud cover. It was as though the southern half of the city was lit entirely on fire.

"Chutes out!" he called into his comlink, knowing there was no way his men would hear him if he actually had to shout it out to them. Then, feeling the automatic activation device spring into action, his chute exploded into being, jerking him in his harness as he and his men made for a field near a town south of Caen, from where his forces would then coordinate the upward push towards the unsuspecting rear flank of the French defenders.

"Paras, sound off!" he ordered via his comm. As he awaited responses, he kept his eyes fixed on the ground below, where he could still see much of Caen in flames or emitting billowing columns of black smoke.

"_Second Platoon all green!_"

"_Third Platoon, all green!_"

"_Fourth Platoon, all green!_"

Oliver sighed in relief. Apparently their frontal assault had successfully kept the AA guns clear off their trail. Still, he shuddered to think how many lives would be lost costing them that distraction. "_First Platoon__, all green_!" his Platoon Sergeant confirmed over the comm, prompting Oliver to speak up again. "All Platoons are green! Mind your objectives, and keep to the plan, lads! See you groundside!"

"_Jesus Christ...look at the place!_"

Apparently he hadn't been the only one to notice the devastation wreaked on Caen. Even with just the light armoured vehicles and artillery pieces they'd dropped in with, the staunch resistance of the French had caused the city a great deal of damage, particularly once they retreated across the river and broken out the antiquated, yet still very effective military equipment.

"_Maintain comm discipline_," he heard the designated section sergeant chide the man. "_Don't want to inadvertently give ourselves away, lads._"

To whom, Oliver wondered? After all, Operation SUCKERPUNCH had quite nicely sent France back to the stone age, figuratively speaking. Who would be listening in on their comms, if they ever even managed to break its incredibly complex encryption, courtesy of Athena?

"Reaching drop zone," he spoke into his comm as he eyed the nearing ground. "Remember to head for the supermarket. We'll regroup there and push north." Fifteen beeps answered his transmission, informing him that all fifteen members of his contingent had acknowledged his order. Merlin, how he wished he could just Apparate to where he needed to be with his men.

And then, of course, he just as quickly realized why he couldn't. While the application of Portkey transport for troops had been successful during the rescue operation at Purity, After-Action Reports had all agreed that the system was just so utterly haphazard that it took more than acceptable time to coordinate the transported troops into a coherent fighting force. Portkeying/Apparating in troops, it was decided, would be reserved to situations where the arrival zones were already under control and optical supervision or for rapid MEDEVAC and extraction. The _last_ thing anyone wanted was an entire section getting slaughtered because they'd been teleported into an active warzone.

Maybe in the future, though...

Either way, the ground was coming up real fast at him, and this was hardly the moment to be daydreaming. Shaking off the tangential thoughts, he steeled his resolve as got ready to land. As always, it felt like trying to set off on a run after having jumped from a rather high ledge, but the training had held true, so he was quickly firm on his feet, the stiffness in his legs almost gone, and his parachute was quickly bundled up and Disillusioned it from sight. He'd have to remember to come back later and get it, or the quartermaster would undoubtedly have his ass.

Looking up, he was glad to see that the rest of his section was arriving in good order, quickly rallying them to him and repeating the Disillusionment charm in good order such that they were now good to go.

As they knelt in the field, mindful that they were still very much in the open, Oliver brought up a detached scope and surveyed the area around them. So far, no one had fired on them, but that hardly meant there was no one around. The worst ambushes were typically preceded by utter silence.

"There's the power plant," he muttered as he oriented himself. "Mall's on the other side. Sergeant!" he ordered softly, looking at the man's polarized visor, "comm check!"

One by one, the members of his platoon checked in, until Oliver was satisfied everything was in order. "Alright, make for the east side of the power plant. Mind the buildings," he ordered. "No telling how many frogs are going to in this area."

Once he received nods from the section, Oliver nodded back and got back to his feet and began leading the troops in a sustained run as they made for the relative cover of the power plant's building complex. If they stayed where they'd been much longer, Oliver knew the fight would be over in seconds...and not in their favour.

"_This is Second Platoon; we're boots on the ground and Oscar Mike towards rally point Bravo_."

"_Third Platoon is Oscar Mike towards rally point Charlie. No contacts so far._"

"_Fourth Platoon, rally point Delta in sight. Looks clear._"

While glad to see his men were safe so far, he never stopped his run towards their own objective, leaving the sergeant to respond to the status reports as he kept his eyes fixed on the area around him. The last thing he wanted was to get pinged by some sniper jackass while in the midst of answering calls.

Heavens, how far _was_ this place?! Arbitrarily, he knew it was no more than a few hundred yards away, but it felt like _miles_ as they ran through the open field, sitting ducks for any competent machine gun crew. Such were his nerves that when he felt his boots finally hit asphalt, he actually let out a sigh of relief — thankfully not picked up by his comm.

"_Cars in the parking lot!_" he heard over the comm, marked on his visor as O'Hara.

"_Eyes up on those windows!_" the sergeant ordered instinctively. "_Michaels, Boer, up front! Scout out the parking lot!_"

With little more than a grunt of acknowledgement, Oliver watched as two of his section peeled off from the group and turned the corner of the building where they'd stacked up to comply with their orders. Peering around the corner, Oliver watched as the two paratroopers moved in concert, one man silently providing overwatch while the other moved from cover to cover.

"_Civvie cars. Looks clear, bo__ss._"

Oliver nodded before turning to the sergeant. "I want one section in the east building, one in the west, sergeant." he ordered. "I'll take the west building, you take the east. Clear the buildings before getting ready to move out to the supermarket."

The sergeant nodded, his face obscured by the polarized visor of his tactical helmet. "_Understood, sir,_" he replied over the comm. "_Second section, on me!_" the man ordered before skirting around Oliver and leading his men towards their objective. Oliver, for his part, decided to wait until the last man of the sergeant's section had passed him before motioning for his section to follow him.

"On your feet, move out!" he ordered before shooting to his feet and engaging in a sprint towards the western building, noticing out of the corner of his eye that the sergeant had already reached his building and was kicking in the door, flanked by two men who rushed in before him. He had to admit, clad in their special, all black tactical (and very experimental) magically reinforced body armor — which theoretically had magically hardened plates covering _all_ main vital areas — they made for an intimidating sight, though that just meant that Oliver was glad to have them on _his_ side.

Coming up on his own door, he stood back as two of his men went to either side while the other walked up and tried the door handle. Locked. Knowing that any power station worth its salt would have secure front doors, the trooper brought out a breaching charge and set it up before making for the side of the door, followed by the rest of the section. Three, two, one...

A small blast later, Oliver and his men were in the building, Oliver leading the charge and directing his men to clear each room as they made their way along the hallway. Every time he sent a man into a room, he had to restrain a sigh of relief as they called out "Clear!" and rejoined the line.

Fortunately, it was a single-level building, so beyond a few untidied offices, there was nothing of note within the building. In fact, from what Oliver could glean from a few papers left in what appeared to be the general manager's office, the whole complex had been due for shutdown, before SUCKERPUNCH had done it for them.

"General Wood here," he called up the sergeant. "Sergeant, what's your status?"

"_Building complex secure, sir. Not a soul in sight._"

Looking around at the deserted office space, Oliver nodded to himself. "Yeah, same here. Looks like the civvies here ran a while ago."

"_Why didn't they take their cars, then, sir?_" the sergeant asked sceptically.

Oliver could've punched himself. The answer to that was so _goddamn obvious_! "Blackout, sergeant," he reminded the man. "No electricity, no car. Not with nowadays' models, anyway."

There was a pause in which Oliver was sure the sergeant had been silently cursing at himself for forgetting that. "_Understood, sir. Rallying up for exfil._"

Oliver nodded to himself again before keying up his unit. "Section, on me!" he barked out. "Ready for exfil!"

In good order, the two sections met up again outside the power plant complex. Unwilling to take the open road, Oliver had his men jump the hedges and cut through the gardens of the few civilian houses in the area, with two men typically charging into the house proper to secure the place. Fortunately, like the power plant, these seemed to have been deserted in a hurry, so the number of complications remained small.

"_Second Platoon here; awaiting orders at Rally Point Bravo._"

"_Third Platoon at Rally Point Charlie_."

"_Fourth Platoon at Rally Point Delta._"

"Hold position," Oliver ordered tersely as his platoon made their way through the parking lot of the E. Leclerc supermarket that served as their own rally point. "This op is buggered if we don't move in as one."

A slew of confirmations filtered back, but Oliver paid little heed to it as his men carefully navigated the rather full parking lot.

"_Guess they didn't expect they'd get invaded, huh?_" he heard one of the troopers remark bemusedly. Oliver had to agree; with the amount of cars around, you'd think it was freakin' Black Friday!

"_Shows what they knew_," agreed another soldier as they walked through the parking lot, thankful that supermarkets tended to have a curious disdain for windows. "_Man, this place is a ghost town..._"

"_Keep it quiet, you two,_" the sergeant rebuked them. "_Eyes on the perimeter; never know when one of the frogs'll jump out at you._"

Oliver somewhat wished that wasn't true, given that his troops were already tense enough that he imagined any professional masseuse they went to would have to be put on suicide watch, but it was. Urban combat was a nightmare for any soldier — plenty of cover for the enemy, and so many goddamn high rises as to be any sniper's wet dream. Though, arguably, _all_ combat was a soldier's nightmare.

Still, fear was poison in combat, and contagious. "You know," he spoke up, "this reminds me...I think I forgot to pack a razor. Think this place has any?" he asked over the comlink, prompting silence, then a few chuckles from some of the men.

"_Good a place as any, sir_," the sergeant mentioned, and Oliver swore he could hear the man smile. "_Gotta watch out for those Frenchie razors, though. Finicky buggers._"

More chuckles from the team as they moved towards the entrance, eyes still peeled on their surroundings. Once inside, though, the troopers relaxed a bit after clearing the building of any enemy contacts. At the very least, it didn't seem like the French forces had been expecting a rear-flank attack, or else the supermarket would've probably been looted right off the bat to deny attackers any supplies.

Even so, the smell of rancid milk and other dairy products permeated the store, causing more than one soldier to wretch. Even with Oliver's magic around to vanish the spoiled goods, the smell was practically unbearable.

"I'm never going to be able to look at cheese the same way again, man!" one soldier complained after visiting the bathroom for a quick and violent evacuation.

"Guess we found one negative side effect of the blackout," Oliver mused bemusedly to his sergeant as the men took a breather.

The now-helmet-less sergeant, a severe looking man with a shaved head, squared jaw, and unshaven stubble, nodded, his own nose turned up at the horrible smell. Still, having to breathe the stale, recycled air from their helmets had been taxing on their patience. "What's the plan, sir?" he asked flatly, not one to indulge in _too much_ horseplay.

Oliver took out his tactical tablet and brought up the map, zooming in on the last known locations of the frontal assault forces. "The rest of the division in Caen is launching a full scale attack along the river," he briefed the sergeant before pointing out the five bridges that spanned the natural barrier.

"Even so, these five bridges are extremely well defended by the Frenchies, who've scrounged up old artillery and anti-air pieces, or, if intelligence is right, jury-rigged the newer pieces to work manually. Any frontal assault along the bridges is suicide, so the Air Force is providing some cover with heli assaults and a few bombing runs, when they can spare the time."

He then zoomed out and refocused the map on the rear of Caen, where they were supposed to go. "Our contingent is going to take out the artillery pieces they've set up to stall the assault. Recon says they _should_ be here, here, here, and here," he pointed each alleged emplacement out. "We haven't been able to get confirmation on them, however, because the Frenchies got them well hidden, so be ready to have to hunt them down."

The sergeant nodded. "Right. What's the word on the bridges, though, sir?" he asked. "What if the frogs blow them up?"

"Intel says they're as keen to keep Caen intact as we are," Oliver informed the sergeant. "So we're golden on that end; they'll need the bridges to retake the northern half, if they ever get the chance, and even though we need the place _now_, all they need to do is hold their ground until reinforcements arrive."

The sergeant grunted. "Sounds about right, sir," he agreed.

"We've got this battery here," Oliver pointed out the emplacement closest to them. "One platoon per objective. We're not meant to do direct engagements, so avoid any confrontation with the enemy where possible."

Again, the sergeant nodded. "Understood, sir."

"Get the men together, then, sergeant. We're already on the clock with this op, and a lot of good men are going to keep dying until we knock out those guns," Oliver reminded him as he stuffed away the map again. Keying up his comm to the other platoons while the sergeant went for his men, Oliver called up the other platoon leaders.

"This is General Wood to all units; sound off for pre-op," he ordered.

"_Second Platoon ready._"

"_Third Platoon ready._"

"_Fourth Platoon ready._"

Oliver nodded, pleased. "Unit leaders, details regarding your part of the op are being transmitted to you...now," he said as he did so via his tablet. "Avoid direct confrontations, neutralize your objectives, and then try to link up with the main assault. Is that understood?"

A chorus of agreements answered him over the comm. Nodding again to himself, Oliver felt glad to know that his men had their eyes on the ball. "Good. Good luck, gentlemen. General Wood, out."

"Sir, the men are ready to move out," his platoon sergeant informed him then, trotting up to him. Glancing around him, Oliver could see his platoon already by the doors, standing at either side of the glass doorways — wise, in case the French tried to trap them inside or were planning to spring a trap the moment they got out.

Putting his tactical helmet back on, Oliver waited until its primitive head's-up display booted up, showing only his team's status, before standing up and nodding to his sergeant. "Well then, Sergeant Ford, let's go."

The helmeted man nodded. "Yes, sir!"

* * *

If Murphy had been a real guy, Oliver _swore_ he'd get his hands on a time turner and go back to _kill_ the son of a bitch, time paradoxes be _damned_!

The plan, as it turned out...did _not_ go as planned.

Numerous things had gone wrong, right off the bat. First of all, Military Intelligence had gotten the emplacements wrong (big surprise there). Secondly, _there were twice as many_.

And how did he know this particular fact? Why, it happened the moment four_ different _batteries — he assumed — opened up on his detachment, managing to stunt the paratroopers' advance rather effectively, despite their obsolete nature.

"KEEP MOVING!" he roared at his men, even as his radio was filled with the constant shouting of the other platoons trying to survive the unexpected artillery. He jumped a hedgerow just as the street behind him exploded in a deafening roar, his tactical armor managing to blunt the shrapnel blast. "THEY'VE GOT US FUCKING ZEROED!"

"WHERE THE _FUCK_ ARE THEY FIRING FROM?!" he heard one of his troopers shout as they took cover behind one house's brick fence.

A good question, in Oliver's opinion, and one he was currently unable to answer, much to his growing rage.

"Bloody frogs waited 'till we were in their own fucking city before they fired!" another one cursed, bewildered.

Sergeant Ford, always the grim soldier, merely turned his covered head over to Oliver, the slight shifts in posture the only indication Oliver ever got of any underlying emotion. "Sir, we are _sitting_ _ducks_ out here. We need to regroup with the other Paras and formulate another plan!"

Oliver dearly wished he could grant the man what he wanted. Frankly, it would've made tons of sense to retreat and try again in a different way now that they knew their intel was faulty — for which, he vowed, someone would _hang_. The problem was, he couldn't, and he knew it.

"No!" he told the sergeant firmly over the sound of the area around them exploding. "The targets may have increased in numbers, but the mission stands!"

"Sir, we do _not_ have the capabilities for this kind of operation!" Sergeant Ford protested just as forcefully, especially given that they were sorely lacking critical air and artillery support at the moment. "We can try again at a later date!"

"And by then, the whole goddamn French _army_ is going to be in Caen, sergeant, not just these asshats!" Oliver reminded him before pointing in the general direction — he thought — of the river. "Our lads are waiting for us to take those guns down! If we retreat now, every man who fell in the assault will have died in vain!"

Ford was silent as he presumably mulled over Oliver's words, allowing the General to focus on the frantic radio chatter over his comm. "This is General Wood to all units; mission is still a go!" he ordered. "There's too much riding on this, lads! Show the Frogs the Paras fear no one!"

The answering acknowledgements were far less enthusiastic than they'd been in the past few hours, but there was nothing for it. He knew he could very well be sending the men to their deaths, and he dearly hoped that wasn't the case. Not for the first time, he wished he'd pressed on the need for more military mages on his front — but Command had been adamant; the Military Mages were more pressingly needed on the VANGUARD front.

His own magic was nowhere near sufficient for the task ahead. A latecomer to the program, he'd learned valuable lessons in combat magic, but had hardly the time to practice it. He wasn't anywhere near the level of competence his far more infamous colleagues held, which made him an oddity amongst the high ranking mages of the armed forces — his rank came through leadership and achievement, not magical prowess.

Magical prowess...

An idea — an _insane_ idea — popped into Oliver's head at that moment.

"Sergeant, take command of the unit and find some underground cover, I'm going to scout out the unknown emplacements!" he ordered as he pushed his weapon into the man's chest, surprising the veteran NCO.

"Sir?" Ford asked, not a little incredulity filtering into his voice. After all, the idea of a General going on his own, unarmed, to scout out unknown enemy territory was batcrap crazy — nevermind the idea of a modern day general taking to the field in a rear-flank assault.

Without answering the undeveloped question, Oliver brought out his issued emergency portkey — a small, unassuming token that hung alongside each soldier's dog tags. Chuckling to himself as he held it out for his NCO and confused troopers to see, he quickly took off his helmet, his gloves, and held the item between his fingers. For a moment, he swore the men thought he was abandoning them to their fates, and felt a little hurt by the lack of trust.

"One thing I learned at Military Mage school, gents," he informed them as the token glowed in his hands — something the troopers were _definitely_ not told would happen upon its use. "Is how to make a Portkey; or, having one, how to change it."

Looking straight up, Oliver made a quick few calculations in his mind before grinning at the sergeant. "Kinda wish I'd kept my chute for this, to be honest," he admitted as he put his helmet and gloves back on. Finally, it seemed, the sergeant was understanding what his CO was about to do.

"Wait, sir—!"

Too late. With a soft pop, Oliver was gone.

...and summarily reappeared in mid-air, about 1,300 feet up in the air. He didn't even have a second to realize what he'd really just done before he was already in freefall. Fortunately, he was easily adaptable, and so his mind returned to the task at hand, even as he fell to his doom.

Looking around the area, he tried to eyeball any locations where the artillery emplacements pounding them might be. They couldn't be too close to the river, because then they'd be in immediate danger from the Northern ground assault. At the same time, they couldn't be too far south of the river, because then they'd have run well within the guns' effective ranges by now.

Twisting and turning in the air, he watched for any plumes of smoke or fire, deeply aware that his time was nearly up. Still holding fast to the portkey, he closed his eyes and, with another pop, disappeared again, just before he became an ugly stain next to his unit...

...and once again reappeared in mid-air, this time quicker on the uptake and continuing his scan of the surroundings. Nothing was standing out to him! No smoke, no fire...where _were_ the bastards?!

It was by pure accident that he caught it.

A glint, in the distance — which, considering his situation, might as well have been the water shining in the sunshine.

But no, this one was different. Even though he couldn't damn well _hear_ anything, he could see, every few seconds, something yellow appear near the glint, before disappearing. Metal and fire.

Got it.

Which brought another pressing issue to the forefront of his mind — now that he had the damn place, how was he getting out of _this_ predicament? The idea of reworking the portkey again did pass through his mind, but was just as quickly discarded as he realized that the sum of his entire momentum thus far would be translated the moment he reappeared _anywhere_. In short, a quick trip to pancake factory.

Which left him no other choice but to compound his monumentally stupid plan with another insane hat trick.

"Sergeant, get ready; I'm coming in for a landing!" He called out before closing his eyes and pressing his hands on his armor, only managing to mumble, "Oh, this is going to _suck_!" before putting his plan into motion.

"_ARRESTO MOMENTUM!_" he incanted, the magic taking instant effect and slowing him down considerably...though not quickly enough for him to avoid landing flat on his face on the ground next to Ford with _some_ force.

"JESUS!" one of the troopers yelled out in surprise as their CO's body suddenly fell next to their unit. More than one man stumbled back at the sight of their CO suddenly lying face down in the grass.

"SIR!" Ford was instantly on his feet and by Oliver's side, increasingly concerned once he noted the general didn't seem to be moving. Looking back at the stunned troopers, who were even ignoring the constant barrage around them, Ford snapped at them. "O'Hara! King! Get over here and help me with the CO!"

Snapping out of their stupor, the soldiers quickly got to their NCO's side and helped him turn over Oliver's body, their concern reaching panic levels as they noticed he wasn't moving. Quickly, the sergeant took off Oliver's helmet, revealing that the inside of it was badly mangled by the impact — in fact, it seemed like the reinforced visor was pretty much beyond functionality now.

Oliver had numerous purple splotches on his face, too, none of which served to ease his troopers' concerns about his welfare. Whatever their objections had been to the man's op, no paratrooper _ever_ wished death by freefall on _anyone_.

Just as Ford began to reach out to check his pulse, however, Oliver suddenly gasped and breathed in deep, subsequently coughing and rolling on his side to spit out some excess saliva. "Gah! _Merlin's left nut_ that hurt!" he wheezed.

A collective sigh of relief passed through the unit as they realized their daredevil CO had somehow managed to pull off the ridiculous stunt in relatively one piece.

"Sir..." Ford started, unable to mask the awe in his voice. "That was..."

Oliver stopped him by raising a hand, however. "Tell me later, sergeant. I got the fuckers," he said with a pained grin, feeling his body sore all over, but thankfully not feeling so hurt he couldn't move. "Stadium. About a klick northwest of our position. If I had to guess...mortars. Lots of 'em."

Though he couldn't see their expressions, Oliver knew the fact that his stunt worked truly surprised them. All they'd showed at this point was nothing but awe at his ability to _survive_ such a stunt. But to know that it _worked_? That was a whole other ball game!

Groaning, Oliver pushed himself into a seating position, then smiled to himself as Ford extended a helping hand, allowing his CO to finally get back on his feet, despite the aches all over his body. "Alright, then, let's move out while we can," he ordered. "Those mortars seem to have found something else to shoot at for now, so let's not waste time. Ura?"

"URA!"

* * *

"LET'S GO, PARAS! MOVE IT UP! MOVE IT UP!"

Oliver grimaced as he held up the shield that allowed his men to advance without fear of getting shot in the face. They'd found the sports center, alright, but what his little daredevil trick hadn't revealed to his eyes back then was that the French hadn't been idiots and left the place unguarded. Numerous machine gun nests covered the rear approach, and _all_ of them had overlapping fields of fire.

Which meant he had to get creative.

While remaining in cover on the other side of the field, Oliver had been forced to recall all those Transfiguration lessons he'd skimped over throughout the years and quickly got to work. To the French defenders' surprise, the field before them suddenly sprouted numerous slabs of hardened earth which — while not impenetrable or invulnerable — did allow Oliver to move his troopers up outside the effective view of the machine gunners.

Once in a while, however, he _was_ forced to put up strong defensive shields once the emplacements realized what was going on and began redirecting both machine gun _and_ mortar fire on them.

Already, however, his innovative tactics had gotten them across two soccer fields, which just left the track — where the machine gun emplacements were — and the road to the main buildings, behind which were the mortars.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

So far, however, they'd gotten lucky, and not a single one of Oliver's troops had been killed — which was absolutely remarkable, all things considered. Thankfully, the small amount of troops meant that the mortar teams had a more difficult time placing each individual soldier, and as they grew nearer, their effectiveness dropped, particularly as they didn't want the mortars killing their own men.

"Sir, we're being funneled into a mortar kill box," Ford informed him after the team crouched behind another earthen wall that was slowly being chipped away at by the French defenders. "We _need_ a breakthrough!"

Oliver nodded, catching his breath a little as the continuous expenditure of magic took its toll on him. "Air strike?" he asked.

Ford grimaced. "Still nothing, sir. Ground assault still needs them more than we do."

"How the _fuck _is _that_ true?!" one of the troopers asked as he took potshots at the machine gunners, who simply redirected their fire at him, narrowly missing his head. "SHIT!"

"It just is, King!" Ford snapped before turning back to Oliver. "Sir, we _need_ a plan!"

Oliver closed his eyes, his breath still ragged and tired. He thought of every possible thing he could do for his men — none seemed enough. Well, almost none.

"I'll be right back," he told them, a falling feeling forming in his gut as he psyched himself up for what he knew he had to do. Without letting them get a word in edgewise, he suddenly disappeared with a pop.

...and reappeared right behind the first machine gun team, his hands already up forming a shield, just as the loader brought up a gun in surprise and fired a shot at him. The shield held, but by now the gunner realized what was going on and had drawn his own sidearm, shouting at him in French as his shield held strong under the joint fire of both men.

"Sorry about this, chaps," he mumbled, keeping one hand up — weakening the shield a bit — and slamming his free hand on the ground, causing numerous spikes to shoot out of the ground — a favourite technique of Neville's, he heard — and impaled the two soldiers.

"_Sir?!_" he heard Ford all but shout at him over the comm. "_What the hell are you doing?!_"

"One gun down," Oliver replied simply, breathing hard as he grabbed the heavy weapon by its bail and turned it on the machine gun emplacement to his north, squeezing the trigger as the heavy weapon buckled in his grip. Still, the point here wasn't so much to kill off the team as to give his men the opportunity to get into a better position. "Sergeant, get the men to the southern emplacement!" he shouted over the comm.

"_Yes, sir!_" he heard as he continued to pour fire on the confused French defenders to his north, who had no idea that the central emplacement had fallen. "_Paras, move out! Let's go, go, go!_"

That's when he felt something wiz by his exposed head, coming from behind him. Apparently the southern emplacement had realized that something was very wrong and had seen him giving the north emplacement hell. Turning around, he poured some fire on them, hoping his platoon would reach the place quickly as he continued to shift between firing on the north and south teams — fully aware that he was in the absolute worst spot to be right now.

He hadn't even realized he was yelling profanity at the French by now, the sound of his own voice not even managing to breach the cacophony of the machine gun as he continued his one-man rampage. Had he even hit anyone? He doubted it. With the way the gun was buckling, he'd have had more luck hitting someone with a goddamn _musket_.

Bullets kept wizzing by him, one of them making him wince as it slammed into the left shoulder guard, making him feel like a freight train hit him there. Fortunately, there was no penetration, or else he might've had a _much_ different reaction.

"_Sir, we've got the southern emplacement in sight! Beginning assault!_" he heard over the comm, just as bursts of gunfire sounded from behind him. He didn't pause his assault as his men began their attack, but merely began walking towards the northern emplacement, fully aware that the ammunition belt was running low. Once it did, he had maybe a second to put up a shield before one of those French soldiers managed to put a round in his head. He doubted he'd make it. He was just _so exhauste__d_...

What he wouldn't give for a fucking Pepper-up potion right now!

He was within a handful of yards of the emplacement now, and as he expected, his ammunition belt was down its last few shots. Worst of all, he hadn't seen either of the French soldiers manning the spot get killed. Were they both alive behind their sandbags? Neither?

He didn't know; he just kept marching.

Finally, the gun puttered out, much to his irritation. Throwing the gun down, he brought up his hands to put up a shield, and watched as both French soldiers rose from behind cover, their assault rifles in hand and already aiming at him. There was no way he'd make it time.

One bullet missed him by a hair's breadth, but the next one wasn't quite so errant, slamming into his left side, just before pink mist exploded into being behind both of the offending soldiers.

"_Got them!_" shouted one of his troopers — King, if he wasn't wrong. Well, not that it mattered much, however, as he fell to his knees, grimacing and holding his new wound, which _had_ managed to penetrate the tactical armor. Armor-piercing rounds...he should've known...

"SHIT, they've got the CO!" he heard Ford yell, even as Oliver fell to the ground and rolled over, his gloved hands already becoming quickly stained with blood.

He heard, more than saw, someone slide down next to him, even as gunfire resumed — no doubt the mortar crews had decided to present some form of resistance in the form of reinforcements for the gun crews — a little too late, however.

Nonetheless, it kept his men occupied as Ford loomed over, cursing under his breath as he saw Oliver bleed from his wound. "Damn it, sir, this is why generals don't fight in the field!" he swore as he brought out his regulation emergency medkit and quickly stabbed a syrette into a vein. As Oliver's breathing relaxed a little, he brought out his portkey and put it in Oliver's hands. "Here, get back to the CP, sir, and get patched up. We've got this."

"No, staying here," Oliver insisted. "Help me...put my hand on the wound." he ordered.

"Sir..."

"_Fucking do it, sergeant!_" Oliver snapped, angry more at himself for getting shot than at the man's reticence.

Silently, the sergeant complied, and Oliver muttered, frowning, "_Vulnera Sanentur_."

Slowly, his blood stopped pouring out of his wound, until the gaping wound was all that was left. "_Vulnera Sanentur_," he whispered again, his breathing not getting any better. This time, the wound began to knit, and Oliver grimaced as the process felt like a hot iron was being pressed on his wound. "_Vulnera Sanentur!_" he gasped out for the last time, and finally the wound disappeared.

Kneeling over him, Ford watched in stunned amazement as the critical injury vanished from sight, leaving only unblemished skin visible where another trooper, without critical emergency medical treatment would've died in minutes. "Sir..." he spoke, once again in awe of the man before him.

Oliver lifted his head slightly to see that his hands were, in fact, no longer being wetted with blood before letting it drop on the grass, sighing in relief. "Later, sergeant. Just get those damn mortars out of my fucking sight!" he ordered sternly.

Ford nodded firmly, his mouth a thin, severe line once more. "Yes, sir!" he acknowledged before putting his helmet back on and bringing his weapon back up. "Let's go, lads!" he ordered. "For the CO!"

"URA!" the troopers roared as they charged forward, pouring fire on the defending mortar crews.

Oliver sighed as he watched them go, only he knowing how close he'd come to really needing to be MEDEVAC'ed. He'd been feeling his extremities go numb after the first spell, forcing him to focus entirely on the spell lest he go into shock. Fortunately, the gambit had worked, and so now his men wouldn't have his state on their minds as they assaulted the position.

Still, he knew he'd need to get some rest before doing much of anything again. But, for now, he'd stick around and give his men the inspiration they needed.

Merlin...what a day.

* * *

_**Caen, France, February 5, 2017 (D-Day +5)...**_

Operation Cobra, in the end, was a success.

The fall of Caen was accomplished when the First Platoon not only managed to take out the mortar position in western Caen, but also, in the process, managed to recover a map with the positions of the other emplacements. Rather convenient, but it appeared to be that the officer in charge of them had been killed in the initial engagement with Wood's troops after he'd been wounded, and since no one else was supposed to know about them, the maps fell into the platoon's hands once they conducted a search of the fallen's bodies.

With the information in hand, Second, Third, and Fourth Platoons were able to rally and push towards their objectives, finally silencing the French guns — older models dating from practically World War II or the Indochina War — about twelve hours into the fight for southern Caen.

With the artillery falling silent, the ground assault was able to push forward more easily, with the Military Mages still alive from the initial engagement setting up earthen and concrete barricades much in the same way Oliver had once the details of Oliver's actions had filtered back to the command post.

After a few more hours, the last defenders of Caen surrendered after being surrounded by the surviving Paras to their south and the main thrust of the assault to their north. The surrender was bought at a cost that made Oliver quite uncomfortable, however.

Over four hundred Paratroopers and fifty Airmen had died in the assault, with thousands more injured. While on its nose this was actually rather remarkable for an urban operation, especially in a civilized and modernized country with an effective and first-rate fighting force, the loss of technology had apparently weakened their enemies far less than the Northern Sun had hoped.

The French forces, people liked to forget, had never been made up of cowards or bunglers. Even during World War II, it hadn't been the French troops who'd messed up the defence plans that led to their surrender — it'd been their leaders. But with a whole cadre of officers made veterans by the Franco-German conflict, their leaders were not unused to thinking on their feet.

Which led to several unpleasant discoveries.

For one, that even old tech was just as deadly as new tech. Older artillery, mortar, and anti-aircraft guns, at least thirty and above years old still worked quite effectively against modern troops. No matter what kind of body armor you wore, a shell detonating at point blank range was almost certainly going to ruin your day.

Secondly, that you didn't need electricity to fight effectively. While it helped, the French had gotten around their lack of electronic targeting aids by jury-rigging their artillery pieces and tanks to fire without the need of a computer, and their tank guns were quickly dismantled and taken to a fixed defensive location, or were made into fixed positions of their own. Comm problems? Apparently, runners worked just as well, especially when you were fighting an entrenched enemy and couldn't push past their barricades. Yes, it was much slower than electronic communications, but once your perimeter was pretty manageable and your had relay runners about, those issues just seemed to be much less pressing.

In short, the Northern forces got off rather easy, all things considered, but they'd still paid a cost far higher than they'd expected.

Oliver, for his part, however, became an instant hit with the Paratroopers once his platoon sang his praises in every locale where there was a willing ear. Ballsy Ollie his men were calling him, whenever they thought it was safe to speak outside of his hearing range. His valour in battle and his constant attempts at securing his men's safety made him popular with the troops, and more than a few Paratroopers walked up to him, saluted, and asked to shake his hand in thanks for what he'd done.

Oliver usually agreed, but felt somewhat disheartened as he remembered how his own contingent had fared. His platoon had lost four men, and Sergeant Ford had been injured in the battle to neutralize their designated artillery piece. Second, Third, and Fourth Platoons had, cumulatively, lost thirty men to injury or death, as the initial bombing of their troops had caught them entirely in the open, and the subsequent engagements had taken their toll.

"I hear you took out an HMG emplacement on your own."

Oliver looked up from his desk — Merlin, how he hated the damn thing — to see Neville entering the room, looking somewhat bemused. Oliver's eyebrows shot up — he hadn't heard that Neville was coming over for a visit.

"I wasn't alone," Oliver stated neutrally, disliking the memory of what he'd done, considering that if he hadn't led his men into a mortar ambush, maybe more of them would still be alive. "And I hadn't heard you'd be visiting."

"Surprise inspection," Neville informed him flatly as he inspected the office, before shrugging. "Not as ostentatious as Fikse or Dubois', but it's nice."

Oliver ignored the comment. "I assume your presence here is due to something other than checking out my office?"

Neville was silent as he contemplated the sole painting in Oliver's office — a portrayal of a paratrooper regiment jumping into a war-torn region — Normandy, by what he read from the inscription. "Calais and Dunkirk have fallen," he informed Oliver suddenly.

"Fikse and Dubois know their stuff, then," Oliver replied, continuing his reading of the numerous after-action reports of the assault across the river. More than a few soldiers would be getting commendations, it seemed, even if only for being wounded in action.

"Yeah. Lille surrendered," Neville added, still contemplating the painting. "Apparently the French garrison pulled out and the civilians didn't want our troops blowing the city up."

"Smart of them."

"But inconvenient for us," Neville told him as he pulled out a folder Oliver hadn't realized he'd brought with him and put it on top of the AARs. "French forces have abandoned all first-line cities. They've pulled back to the major cities and have begun establishing a line designed to contain our advance."

Picking the folder up and opening it, Oliver read through the contents — information provided for by Redemption and its allies. "Amiens, Rouen, Orleans..."

"Rheims, St. Quentin, Metz, Nancy, Strasbourg, Rennes," Neville supplied as well, knowingly leaving a few out. "They know the blackout's put them on the backpedal, but they're not giving in so easily. Each one of those cities are going to be a bitch and a half to take...especially now that the King wants there to be as little collateral damage as possible."

Oliver nodded. "I saw what the French think of that in south Caen first hand," he informed Neville sarcastically. "They didn't see it quite that way."

Neville nodded. "I heard. You're in line for a medal, by the way."

"Save it," Oliver snapped suddenly, slamming the folder shut. "I don't want it."

"Take it anyway, for your men," Neville said with a shrug. "They're all getting medals too, I hear. After what you guys pulled? They deserve it."

Oliver ignored the comment. "What happens now?" he asked, motioning towards the folder.

"Now? Now we wait until Stage Two lands," Neville informed him as he made ready to leave. "Even if we have the intel, and even if Miss Delacour and her friends help, there's no way we can do anything about the French line fortifying up until the main armies land."

"So we're just letting them dig in?" Oliver asked, bewildered.

"They got smart, Wood," Neville simply told him. "They traded Caen, Dunkirk, Calais, and Lille for the time they needed to get their gear and plans in order. That's strategy. Welcome to the war."

With that last word, Neville left, leaving his colleague confused and uncertain. If everything they'd fought for in the past few days had been merely a delaying action by the French, what the _hell_ was the actual fight going to be like?!

He checked his calendar — D-Day Plus Five. Six days of this war, and he was already sick of it.

* * *

_**Post-AN:** As requested, a brief reminder of what each major project or operation is:_

_Project MJOLNIR - the creation of combat-feasible Magnetically-Accelerated Cannons, with the added benefits of runic magic amplifications._

_Project ATHENA - the creation of the first ever Artificial Intelligences via a mixture of Magical Portrait magic and virtual intelligence technology._

_Project HAVOC - the improvement at the genetic and biological level of all standing forces of the Northern Sun [Genetic engineering in adults]._

_Project VANGUARD - the creation of a Point-to-Point Mass Floo transit system; used in Operation VANGUARD, which landed 10,000 combat-ready Northern troops in Belgium in a matter of moments._

_Operation SUCKERPUNCH - deployment of numerous tactical High-Yield Magical Bombs (HYM Bombs) across the globe in a concerted denial-of-technology attack on every region of the world, with the express intent of leaving the Northern Sun and its allies as the sole nations capable of ongoing functionality and military efficacy._

_Operation VANGUARD - deployment of 10,000 troops from the Northern Sun to Belgium as an advance strike force meant to reinforce the Belgian-Dutch-Luxembourgian forces, as well as the deployment of the Paratroopers into Normandy for the capture of Caen, in advance of the main invasion._

_Operation Cobra - Short-hop deployment of Paratroopers behind enemy lines to search-and-destroy enemy artillery emplacements hindering the advance of the main force in North Caen._

_Operation SUNRISE - The invasion of France._


	26. Chapter XXI: The War in France

_**AN: **Chapter 21! Woo! Faster than usual, too, though I have Ray to thank for that. Having a vet providing a constant source of inspiration kinda helps get the creative juices going._

_See you all in Chapter 22!_

_Oh, and for those who care (me), I have now broken the 1,000,000 words archived milestone. Please indulge me while I fist-bump myself._

_Cheers,_

_Marquis Black_

* * *

_**Caen, France, February 15, 2017 (D-Day +15...)**_

The first transports hit the Normandy beaches at five in the morning.

It was hard not to notice it, either, as the northern horizon, as seen from Caen, seemed lit on fire as the Northern Navy opened fire on what few emplacements remained guarding the shoreline. This was done in quick order, and most of the remaining French forces not already in Northern custody within the region either fled or surrendered.

Still, the devastation was pervasive.

French refugees, unwilling to abandon their rural homes, suddenly found themselves lining up the sides of the roads as the French and Northern forces skirmished throughout the countryside, often forcing the civilians to flee, lest they got caught in the crossfire. Already, Caen was serving as home to hundreds of thousands of refugees, and this worried Oliver greatly.

For one, the Northern forces could hardly afford to feed these refugees for any long period of time without cutting in deeply into their own supplies — maybe that was the point of it, one could cynically assume. After all, if the E.T.O. was forced to halt its assault for any period of time due to shortages, then it would serve the French forces well as they continued to reinforce their lines.

Secondly was the fear that amongst these refugees, enemy forces had infiltrated the crowds and begun making their way into areas the Northern forces had declared pacified. If that was so, then any number of threats would crop up at the very worst time possible. While overly paranoid, perhaps, Oliver _did_ have the SIS send agents over to begin screening the refugee population for such agents. For once, it seemed, he and the SIS could agree on something.

However, much of those fears were somewhat alleviated when, two days after the initial landing, the first forces relieving his paratroopers arrived in Caen. The redoubtable Challenger-II tanks, fully functional once again, headed the charge into Caen, to the cheers of the paratroopers who'd been forced to garrison and hold the city against numerous raids.

At the head of this army was a man that Oliver respected quite a bit, as did most of the armed forces — Alexander Humboldt, nicknamed "the German" by his men. Severe and humourless, the man was nonetheless a pillar of calm and a master of defense, both of which had earned him the highest praise for the Death Eater campaign, where he alone had managed to retain most of his command intact and his own injuries to a minimum.

Stepping down from the tank he'd personally rode in on, Humboldt offered Oliver a salute, quickly returned, before shaking his hand gruffly.

"I am told you did an admirable job holding the city, General Wood," Humboldt mentioned. "You have my congratulations, and my thanks. Now, we can proceed with Stage Two on schedule."

Oliver nodded before motioning for him to follow. Walking towards the command center, Oliver spoke up, "I'm glad you're so eager General, because there's a lot of work to be done," he informed Humboldt before snapping his fingers at an orderly and quickly passing on the offered digital tablet to Humboldt. "Early yesterday, around 0900 hours, my scouts detected that the French forces successfully sabotaged the N158, A84, and N13 highways out of Caen. We can repair the damage, but by then the French will have pulled their forces further back to more defensible positions."

"Why not send mages?" asked Humboldt as he read through the reports. With a swipe, he brought up the map and frowned as he read the illustration.

"They're needed elsewhere," Oliver mentioned. "The VANGUARD front has been holding its own, but until your forces can link up, they're still going to be outgunned by the French forces in the area, numerically speaking."

"I imagine you already have a target for us, then," Humboldt noted, rather than asked.

Oliver nodded as they reached the command room, where digital screens and more than a few A.I.s were working around the clock to process, strategize, and implement solutions according to the various problems that arose as each second went by. Pointing to a computer technician, Oliver nodded at him. "Bring up the feed for l'Eveque," he ordered.

Humboldt watched as one of the screens changed to show a satellite image of the town in question. "This is Pont l'Eveque," Oliver briefed him. "Population unknown, since many of the rural towns have had their civvies abandon ship for one of the main cities. Nonetheless, it controls a vital crossroad between the A13 highway to Le Havre and the A132 highway up to Deauville, which has suitable beaches for quick disembarkation of troops."

"You want me to make sure the French don't screw up the roads here," Humboldt guessed as he rubbed his stubbled chin. "Leave at least one roadway still active."

Oliver nodded, leaning forward on a nearby console as he gazed at the satellite image as well. "That, and word is that High Command wants Le Havre for its port facilities. From l'Eveque to Le Havre is a short jump, and those bridges are going to be vital for transporting our troops overland, and for coordinating the attack on Rouen."

Humboldt nodded. "Understood," he stated neutrally. "I will marshal my men at once."

Oliver eyed the severe man before nodding. "Good luck, then, General. We'll make sure your six is clear."

Humboldt saluted and promptly left the command post, leaving Oliver to his staff. Taking a moment to appreciate the difficulty of the task he'd set upon Humboldt, Oliver soon returned to his work as he straightened up, went to the center of the room, and there observed each screen's information.

"Status report on the landings!" he barked out.

"Sir, troop disembarkation is proceeding on schedule; estimates place three thousand on shore by the end of the day," answered one tech.

"Sir, Admiral Georgeson is requesting that we set up portkey landings to speed up the unloading process," another one piped up then as she typed away at her console. "What should I inform his XO?"

Oliver didn't even need to ponder it. Having the Army boys locked up in a ship for perhaps days on end because the transport ships were running at capacity was unnecessary. "Do it," he ordered. "Use the fields north of Caen; I want as many transported over as safely possible!"

"Yes, sir!"

"What about the western landings?" Oliver then asked, the map on the screen moving to reflect the battle at La Rochelle.

"_Communications from La Rochelle indicates a successful landing along the beach fronts, General_," answered one of the A.I.s on call — Mercury, the staff called it. "_General Swift's advance has met with some resistance, but all indications point to it quickly dissipating upon assault._"

Oliver grimaced a bit. He had a feeling he knew why — Swift's fluid tactics afforded the man a great deal of maneuvering ability with his forces, but this highly advantageous skill was at the same time smeared with the man's unseemingly aggression. He knew _why_ Swift was this way — even though he personally remembered him as being far more benign and fun-loving — but it still gave him great disquiet when he saw the results of Swift's blitzkrieg tactics.

Though effective, they usually weren't pretty.

"_General, Spanish forces under General Ruiz-Perez have finally succeeded in pushing the French Fifth Army out of Bayonne and are now beginning preparations for the establishment of a single front along the south,_" Mercury added to its report. "_The General requests permission to undertake the capture of Toulouse._"

"Reroute his request to High Command in Brussels," Oliver ordered simply. "To the attention of Field Marshal Speirs."

"_As you wish, General_."

That was a positive change, at least. With Speirs on deck, Oliver could trust that a far more seasoned strategist was taking the helm of the war, rather than leave it to himself, Neville, and the other generals to sort it out amongst themselves. He'd even heard that by ETO resolution, Speirs had been declared Field Marshal of _all_ ETO forces, effectively making him the single most powerful man in Europe right now — except, perhaps for their king, who commanded Speirs' undying allegiance.

"Sir, Austrian forces have reached the French border," spoke up another technician, the hologram of an A.I. floating next to her console. No doubt she'd been conferring with it. "Niccolo's been going over the intel on the area; we think they might be heading for an ambush in Strasbourg. Local Redemption intel seems to agree."

Oliver nodded. "Bring up the map," he ordered quickly. Looking over the area of Strasbourg, he could see why such a thing might happen. Straddling the Rhine river, with only a few bridges in the city and its vicinity allowing access over it, the city of Strasbourg made for an excellent ambush spot.

"Inform General Haas of the situation and recommend that he move his forces into France by way of Marckolsheim; he can call up High Command is he wants to confirm the order," he ordered, prompting the concerned tech to quickly comply with his orders. "Send a request to High Command that Military Mages be embedded into the Austrian forces in order to provide support in the event of another such ambush."

"_General, there has been burst transmissions by Redemption informing of a possible impending raid against the south of Caen once again,_" Mercury announced then, making Oliver close his eyes and groan tiredly. Ever since losing the city, the French had made damn sure that keeping it would be a constant chore.

"Rotate sentries in South Caen with troops unloading from the Second Army. Get the engineers to build the fortifications they've been promising, and _then_ tell the Military Mages we could _really_ use their help clearing out the towns south of Caen," he ordered. He knew at least _two_ of those orders would probably go unheeded, mostly due to the utter logistical _hell_ that was landing an army, nevermind _two_.

Even so, it was his duty, as _de facto_ commander of the Caen front, to see to it that the situation was either resolved or at the very least ameliorated.

"Just in case, order the Paras' Second Division, Second Regiment to get on standby," he ordered, deciding not to rely on the green army boys either — HAVOC enhancements notwithstanding. "If things go south for the army boys, I want them on call to back them up."

"_Yes, General. Informing them now._"

Oliver nodded, pleased with the response time of his staff and the A.I.s. Useful things, them, though he'd had a considerably easier time being around them, given his childhood growing up amongst talking portraits.

Even so, with four — he thought — A.I.s on call in his command center, they were _still_ being overwhelmed by the amount of information trafficking through. Hence the human operators and analysts that remained on station — already, he'd found that despite their amazing analytical skills, the A.I.s seemed to be unable to calculate in the human factor, and so even a great analysis could be made into nothing if the enemy commander decided to do the opposite of what the A.I.s predicted on a whim.

"Sir, General Humboldt is calling for you," an attache informed him as she stepped up to him and saluted. "He's on your private line in your office."

Saluting back, Oliver nodded. "Thank you, Lieutenant. Colonel Macintosh, you have the floor until I come back. Interrupt me if anything extraordinary happens," he ordered.

The buzz-cut, square-jawed colonel nodded firmly and saluted. "Yes, sir! Lieutenant Page, please note in the day journal that at eleven hundred hours, General Wood has left the command center!"

"Yes, sir!"

* * *

_**Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, February 21, 2017 (D-Day+21)...**_

Harry hated himself right now.

Well, maybe hated was a strong word. Resented? Disliked? Either worked, he supposed. Bottom line, though, he wasn't happy with himself.

Now the reason for that was quite simple — he wanted to be in France right now. _Not_ going to war with his men was about as odd and anathema to him as it would be for the Sun to spontaneously freeze over. Most of his _life_ had been on the battlefield — always risking his life on some hellish piece of dirt somewhere, fighting the good fight for some idiot politician's benefit.

Except now _he_ was the politician. And he certainly _hoped_ he wasn't being an idiot.

He envied Oliver, and Neville. And Swift. And Humboldt.

For Merlin's sake, he envied _Ruiz-Perez!_ His archnemesis from the Anglo-Spanish Wars, who now served the ETO loyally! How fucked up was _that_?

Oh, sure, he was glad for his friends — Speirs was an incredible soldier and a sharp man; his role as Field Marshal of the ETO was well deserved. Neville was an up-and-coming general whom Harry had no doubts would prove himself, at long last, on the fields of France. Oliver was a man who was deeply conflicted, morally speaking, about what he'd done, but when push came to shove he was an excellent leader and a smart man. He, too would grow well in this conflict.

And Harry so wished he could be there with them.

But he couldn't, and as much as he'd love to pin the blame for that on his wife's insistence that he not do so, or on his ministers, he knew it was his own damn fault.

Now, he wasn't losing his touch, strategically speaking — hardly. Nor was he weaker by any means. No, the reason was that he'd finally gotten what he wanted, and now it was his job to make sure he _kept_ what he'd gotten. Gallivanting around Europe while being the _inaugural_ king of a brand new dynasty was _not_ the safest way to ensure the continuation of his legacy!

Plus, he wasn't exactly being left out of the loop. Speirs and he were in constant communications whenever Harry had the time to sneak into the secure-as-fuck bunker they'd built under the Palace to keep him safe in the event of another terrorist attack. And his friend was more than happy to strategize with him, given their shared experiences in Spain.

Still, the call of the battlefield tugged at his very being, and more than once — just like now, when he was supposed to be enjoying, along with his family, the exquisite performance of a young woman playing the violin whilst dancing beautifully — he felt himself distracted, thinking on plans and how his men were faring.

To that end, he'd become sort of a walking nightmare to the Civil Service, as he constantly hounded the department to make sure the soldiers were fully supplied at all times. It wasn't feasible, true, but he made damn sure that they were aware of his displeasure whenever reports filtered back of shortages.

"Daddy, can I play like her?" his six-year-old daughter asked him then, pointing down at the performing young woman on the stage. On her other side, Elicia smiled kindly and patted her daughter on the head.

"Would you like to play the violin, dear?" she asked, noting Harry's rather...absent attitude with some sadness. She wished being with his family would tear his thoughts away from the war, but it seemed to be a monumental effort to get his attention for _anything_ these days.

Katerina, fortunately, hadn't noticed — or chose to ignore — the attitude change in her father, being simply glad that he was around far more often now that the war was in full swing. Now he wasn't visiting army bases every day, or coordinating strategy, both foreign and domestic, with Speirs and his cabinet. He wasn't travelling over to Brussels to convince and entice the ETO to back the invasion of France, or personally overseeing deployments. He had ministers for that, now. He had generals.

So naturally, with much of his presence's need diminished, he had far more time to enjoy the rising cultural achievements of the Northern Sun. With its technologically superior Navy and Air Force patrolling its skies, the British islands were perhaps the least affected region in the war — even beating out Austria, which had Germany as a buffer zone. As a result, the Northern Sun had become _the_ center for mainland and overseas refugees to flee to, and the first to arrive were the businessmen, followed soon by artists and intellectuals who understood their small chances at survival in war zones.

This, in turn, had led to a cultural explosion in the North, as the government embraced the refugees and attempted to sway them into staying. Many would not — obviously — but with any luck the most talented could be persuaded to remain and make the Sun's shining beacon of prosperity and order shine a bit brighter.

Like the artist performing for the audience right now, for instance. An overseas refugee, she'd turned to her music to keep the spirits of others like her raised, despite being far from home. No doubt the government would be seeking to have her stay.

But even with all this, Harry couldn't see the roses, metaphorically speaking. Or rather, he had a hard time doing so. Civilian life — or as close to it as a royal could possibly get to such a thing — was so..._dull_ in comparison with his life in the military. Honestly, he could not conceive how people could find purpose when they went about their lives aimlessly. In the military, he'd had purpose, direction. He had missions and objectives; comrades bound by oath and shared experiences.

Naturally, this attitude rubbed the most important woman in his life the wrong way.

"You were drifting off again," she informed him later that night, after they'd put Katerina to bed and were getting into their own.

Harry looked at her strangely. "When?" he asked, honestly having never noticed it.

"At the concert," Elicia told him as she changed into one of his shirts — her favourite nightwear — and tucked herself in under the blankets. "Katie wanted to know if she could play like that violinist; you didn't answer."

Harry grimaced as his actions were brought to bear once again. This was by no means a new conversation, so he was well aware of what was coming.

"I told her I'd arrange for a tutor so she could try it out," she kept telling him in that calm, serene tone she used whenever she had to deal with things that honestly disappointed her. "I told her it was a lovely idea."

"It is," he agreed softly as he joined her in bed. "I'm sorry, Ellie."

Years ago, she would've rounded on him on the spot and chastised him for all he was worth for the way he was acting, especially around their daughter. Years together with him, however, and of seeing him in action had dulled the edge of her sharp tongue, though she remained firmly devout to the idea of keeping him grounded to the non-military aspects of life.

"I understand _why_ you do it," she told him calmly, turning to look at him with those hazel eyes that melted his heart. "I know you miss the action, the life. But you're doing good back here as well, love."

"It certainly doesn't feel that way, Ellie," Harry sighed as he turned to look at the ceiling. "I do what? Attend parties held in my honour by some group looking for a day in the papers? Attend parades that waste our time? Sit in on conferences and discussions Sirius would by _far_ understand better than I do?"

"And all of that helps Speirs and your boys in France, love," she assured him as she snuggled over and lay her head on his chest. "Sirius doesn't send you to these things because it amuses him. He knows how much you want the Northern Sun to win. He wants it too, you know. Everything you do keeps the government running smoothly, and that means Sirius can see to it that the army gets what it needs."

"What about that feline fashion show he sent me to once?"

Elicia giggled at the memory. "Alright, so he doesn't send you to _almost _all those things because it amuses him."

Harry made a face before giving in and chuckling as well. In hindsight, it _was_ pretty amusing, he supposed. Hugging Elicia close to him, he smiled into her hair. "I think Katie taking violin lessons is a wonderful idea, by the way."

"You would," she answered with a smile. "You...fiddlephile."

Harry paused for a moment, scrunching his face in thought. "That's not a word."

Elicia laughed.

* * *

_**Le Havre, France, March 10, 2017 (D-Day +38)...**_

"GET DOWN!"

Ford pulled the trooper back into cover just as the artillery round slammed against the Northern fortifications, denting the plating though failing to breach, thank their lucky stars! Ford, however, was in no mood to revel in his luck, and simply glared at the man still held in his grasp.

"You want to die, soldier?!" he roared at him. "Then find another goddamn place to do it! Or, if you think you're man enough, sack up and keep your head clear!"

The leader of Delta Section, First Platoon, Charlie Company, 1st Battalion, 1st Paras Regiment, 1st Northern Paratroopers Division was hardly in a good mood. Having gotten used to the solid leadership of General Wood, he'd been a mite disappointed — and _that_ was an understatement — when his replacement, Colonel Jerome Dike, had proven to be much more of an armchair commander. Unwilling to even jump with his men — a task he felt was far too dangerous for someone of his eminent standing and rank — the man's absenteeism had made most of the Division effectively transfer their hopes and confidence into Captain Patrick Meehan, a former Irish paratrooper.

Meehan, bless his heart, easily kept pace with his men, and Ford respected him for it. Now, if only he hadn't been forced to listen to the dumb as _fuck_ orders Dike gave him, they'd be golden. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case.

"BUCHANAN!" he yelled at his heavy weapons specialist in the section, one Private Patricia Buchanan. "Front and center! Take out that fucking artie!"

Without a word, the soldier ran up to her sergeant, unslung the RPG launcher she carried on her back and knelt down by the barricade. "_Need a call, sir,_" she stated simply over the comm, her tactical helmet masking any form of emotion — not that she tended to show any while unmasked, either.

"Building on your north-west, one hundred meters, inside the parking entrance!" he told her. "Light that bitch up!"

Nodding, Buchanan raised the grenade launcher to her shoulder and rose up to fire, only to duck again as incoming fire prevented her from taking the shot. "_Shit!_" she hissed. "_Sir, enemy fire is too much. I won't get a shot off in time._"

Another round collided with the barricade, denting another section of it rather precariously. The magically reinforced metal plating wouldn't be holding much longer — and if it didn't, that meant the French would have managed to punch a hole through the containment encirclement.

"_Sir, barricade's not going to hold!_" called out Corporal Liam McNamara, his 2iC in Delta Section. "_Another hit and we're going to have to fall back!_" Looking down the line of defenders along this particular barricade, he could see all other five members of his outfit fighting on regardless.

"We're _not_ abandoning this position, soldiers!" Ford snapped. "King, Wright, Petrovsky! Provide covering fire for Buchanan on my mark!"

"_Against __**what**__?_" King asked dumbfoundedly. "_Everything is shooting at us!"_

"_Anything with a pulse, King_," Buchanan reproached him.

"_What, like the whole fucking French army out there?!_"

"Ready!" Ford called out, ignoring the banter. "MARK! COVERING FIRE!"

As one, the indicated members of Delta Section rose from cover and began firing on the more obvious targets amongst the attacking French forces which, despite the technological outage, were providing a rather stiff challenge, surprising much of the Northern armed forces. Even now, as they tried to bring down as many of the attackers as possible, the French soldiers remained firmly in cover and only a couple fell to the barrage — which, granted, hadn't been the purpose of this particular tactic.

"BUCHANAN! FIRE!"

"_Firing_," Buchanan confirmed, just before a popping sound heralded the RPG launcher's firing. The projectile sailed straight towards its target, and soon caused the parking entrance to emit plumes of fire as the explosive round detonated.

"_Sir! Charlie Section reports their barricade is caving!_" reported McNamara.

Ford cursed as he looked over the barricade. The French weren't letting up, but having Charlie Section's position get overrun would allow the enemy to flank them something awful. It soon got worse, however. The trooper manning the HMG position on their barricade soon fell backwards as his head exploded in a shower of gore and blood. A direct hit from a high-caliber gun.

"WRIGHT!" he roared at the only other female in his section. "ON THE GUN!"

"_Sir, what about Charlie Section?!_" demanded McNamara as he continued firing at the advancing enemy. "_If they get overrun, it won't matter if we hold this position!_"

Ford knew McNamara was right, but he also knew he couldn't well abandon his post. Not without bringing up severe questions about his ability to follow orders and command his section. Even so, could he really let those boys die because of that?

Cursing under his breath, he eyed the Land Rover Wolf Mk. II Rapid Reconnaissance Vehicle, HMG variant, that had carried half of his section to the barricade quickly, once it became known that the position was buckling. As always, the army had called upon the Paras to shore up their defences.

Making up his mind, Ford cursed again before looking over to McNamara. "Mac, you're in charge here! I'm going to go link up with Charlie Section!" he informed his subordinate. "KING! You're on the wheel!"

"_Yes, sir!_"

McNamara nodded at Ford before extending his hand. Returning the favour, Ford clasped the paratrooper's forearm in a gesture of camaderie. "_Stay safe, boss,_" McNamara told him earnestly. "_You too, King!_"

"Ura, Mac," Ford stated somberly before getting off the barricade and quickly mounting behind the swivel HMG. "Delta Section! Hold this line no matter _what_ it takes! Paratroopers, URA!"

"_URA!_" the rest of his section roared in unison, almost deafening him over the comm.

"King, hit it!" he ordered, already turning his gun behind to offer a few parting shots to the French attackers going after his men.

"_Yes, sir! On our way to pull Charlie's arses out of the goddamn fire!_" King acknowledged as the Wolverine lurched into action, its four-wheel drive kicking into high gear as King pressed down on the accelerator.

The buildings of Le Havre seemed to be momentary illusions to Ford as the RRV sped down the mostly-cleared streets that had helped them form the containment line keeping the French defenders of Le Havre from linking up with the main French offensive on the outskirts. Paratroopers had been, once again, vital to the operation, having been forced to land north of the city and then proceed southward to reinforce the tenuous army positions while General Humboldt whipped the French army into submission.

"_Sir, Charlie Section's being overrun!_" Ford heard McNamara say over the comm. "_They need you there ASAP!_"

"On it, Mac; ETA two minutes," he reported back. He'd been deliberately keeping himself out of Charlie Section's comm frequency thus far, mostly in order to keep a clear, level head about the situation ahead. McNamara could deal with the cacophony of panic that usually befell such situations, but Ford needed a single voice telling him what was what.

And anyway, where the _hell_ was their air support?! "Command, this is Sergeant Ford, Delta Section, First Platoon, First Paras," he transmitted as he kept the swivel-mounted HMG trained on any spots he thought the French might suddenly pop out of. "Requesting immediate air support for Barricade Number Zero-Two-One-Seven; they're about to get overrun, Command."

"_One minute!_" King cut in then.

Ford allowed his training to take over then, as he made sure the ammunition belt was solidly in place and not, as he feared, about to jam on him anytime soon.

"_Sergeant Ford, this is Command; we understand your situation, but the main air assault is focused on the main French force. Can you keep a lid on things for fifteen mikes?_"

Ford glared at no one in particular as he cursed under his breath. "Negative, Command; Myself and trooper King are the only reinforcements they're about to get! We need that air support NOW!"

"_...Understood, Sergeant. We'll do what we can. Command out._"

Which meant absolutely nothing to Ford — not that he had the time to gripe about it. The sound of gunfire being exchanged had become unbearably close, and as soon as King turned the next corner, he was glad for his training, or else he might've lost his lunch.

The barricade had been breached, and in a bad way. Even as the remnants of Charlie Section and the Army boys left to guard the area fought the French onslaught determinedly, it appeared as though the French had realized one of their units had broken through, and were now concentrating their entire assault on this one point.

"_Jesus, Sarge..._"

Ford ignored King's comment, too transfixed by the situation at hand. It was so much worse than Mac had led him to believe...had the Lieutenant been understating the emergency? Or had Mac deliberately held back on the sit-rep to avoid instigating panic?

Either way, it didn't matter. With barely a glare, Ford pressed the trigger on the HMG turret and quickly lit up the entire breach, the multiple barrels of the gun spewing lead and fire faster than anyone could keep up with. Bullets tore away at human flesh as Ford kept the French forces at bay, momentarily taken aback by the sudden savagery being unleashed on them.

"KING! FIND ME THE CO!" Ford shouted over the roar of the HMG.

"_Yes, Sir!_" King acknowledged as he slipped out of the Wolf and sprinted for the black-clad members of Charlie Section, who occupied both remaining sections of the wall. Bullets wizzed by the private as he linked up with Charlie Section, even as Ford really poured on the hate on the enemy.

"_LT's still alive, Sarge!_" King reported after a moment. "_He's been CASEVAC'ed; got dinged in the stomach after the breach!_"

"Who the fuck is in command, then?!" demanded Ford as he rotated his turret a bit to deal with a few pesky French soldiers who'd begun taking potshots at his head.

"_...apparently you are, sir._"

Ford cursed. Were they seriously so fucked that not only was the Lieutenant out of commission, but also Charlie Section's sergeant?

Switching frequencies again, Ford quickly got ahold of Command. "Command, this is Sergeant Ford of Delta Section, First Platoon, Able Company, First Paras. I am onsite with Charlie and I am taking command. LT has been CASEVAC'ed and Sergeant is KIA. Confirm, over," he stated brusquely.

There was a pause in the comms before he got an answer, during which he took the opportunity to hose the breach with another dose of metal, ensuring that the Frenchies thought twice about trying to overwhelm the position by force of numbers. "_Command to Delta Leader; we copy, Delta-Six. Command has been transferred to you, Able-One-Six. What's the situation, Sergeant?_"

"Command, situation is now officially FUBAR. I say again, situation is FUBAR! We need air support _now_!" he insisted, even as his turret continued cutting down any unfortunate French trooper brave enough to poke his head out for a decent shot.

"_We copy, Sergeant. We've got one, say again, one Typhoon oscar mike to your position, callsign Knight Four. ETA is five mikes. Advise you paint the targets and bug out._"

For once, it seemed, Command had come through. Even then, however, they'd put things in a rather hard place for him. Switching comm frequencies to the aircraft in question, Ford quickly attempted to put things in perspective for the incoming pilot.

"Knight Four, Knight Four, this is Able-One-Six, OTG at the target location. Targets are danger close; say again, danger close!"

"_Copy that, Able-One-Six. Please advise on situation. What do you boys need?_" asked the female voice on the other end of the comm.

"Sweetheart, I need you to make sure whatever's on the other side of the barricade stops being alive!" he told the pilot firmly. "Light the whole area up!"

"_Copy that. Switching to Brimstones. I'm going to need a specific avenue of attack in this mess, Able-One-Six_."

"KING!" Ford called out to his trooper, who continued to provide fire support for his Charlie Section comrades. "Pop smoke at the breach!"

Without needing to be told twice, the trooper got off from the standing platform and unhooked one of the coloured smoke canisters from his pack. "_Popping smoke!_" he yelled as he threw the canister right at the huge gap in the barricade. It took a moment, but soon the canister gave a popping sound, and red smoke began to rise. The French seemed to understand the gravity of the situation, however, as they began falling back.

"Knight Four, we have the breach marked with red smoke! Light up everything west of the smoke!" Ford informed the pilot. "Bear in mind we are danger close and _at _the smoke!

"_Copy that, Able-One-Six. Initiating attack run; better duck, boys!_"

"HIT THE DECK!" Ford roared at the defenders, just as the sound of the Typhoon's jet engines began becoming audible. Soon enough, it roared overhead, deftly avoiding the buildings to either side, and soon pulled up after unleashing two of its Brimstone missiles. The whole area seemed to lit itself on fire soon after, and Ford saw many a French soldier desperately attempt to avoid a fiery end. A cheer rose amongst the weary defenders as they saw the French forces begin a fighting retreat.

"_Able-One-Six, this is Knight Four; Payload has been Delta Tango Charlie. Anything else you lads need?_"

Ford, finally letting up on his barrage, leaned on the turret, eager to finally take a breather. Chuckling, fully aware that the comm was still on, he grinned in his helmet. "Let me buy you a beer and we're square, Knight Four."

The pilot laughed on the other end. "_Happens every time. I'll hold you to that, Able-One-Six._ _Knight Four is RTB. Good luck down there, lads._"

* * *

_**Caen, France, March 15, 2017 (D-Day +43)...**_

For once, Oliver was glad to hear the battle feed in his command center.

Apparently, Humboldt had delivered on his promise to liberate Le Havre, although for a moment there Oliver had begun to doubt whether the man's strategy would work. Effectively a bait-and-trap ploy, he'd knowingly held the defenders of Le Havre behind a containment line, deliberately leaving open a single avenue of escape for a small amount of time, even as he'd hidden the rest of his force within the city. To the outside observer, then, the French forces in Le Havre were being cordoned off by a minimal force while Humboldt led his main force elsewhere.

What the technologically-deprived French army wasn't able to figure out, however, was that their attempt to rescue their compatriots had been exactly what Humboldt had wanted, and the moment they'd attempted to retake the city, Humboldt had sprung his trap.

Tanks, attack helicopters, air and naval support all rained down hell on the French forces as his ground troops pushed them back out of the city, making great use of the streets to force the vehicle deprived French forces to coalesce into a much more manageable, chaotic mob.

It was a risky ploy, however, and it'd nearly failed when the French garrison in Le Havre attempted a desperate breakout along the containment line, nearly getting it to break, were it not, he'd heard, for the timely arrival of Sergeant Ford and one of his men, who'd then proceeded to give his technicians hell over the comm until Oliver had ordered a Typhoon fighter be redirected their way.

Even so, Humboldt had managed to deliver his promised blow to the French army.

Bypassing their Fabian strategy of attrition warfare, Humboldt had lured a large complement of the French forces into position and eradicated or captured them, thereby providing the Northern Sun its first, real decisive win.

"Great work, General," Oliver congratulated Humboldt as he shook the man's hand as they stood in the atrium of the command center. So eager for a new assignment had Humboldt been that he was still in his dirty uniform.

"My thanks, General Wood," Humboldt replied formally. "I am here for my new assignment."

Oliver raised an eyebrow, somewhat surprised by the man's _élan_. "You've only just finished the Le Havre campaign. Are you sure you don't want your army to rest up? You did sustain some casualties, General," Oliver reminded him.

"Time to rest is time to dwell, General," Humboldt stated gravely. "And the French have suffered more than we did. We must be quick to press our advantage, before it slips through our grasp as it has before."

Oliver wasn't sure he agreed with that assessment of the army's need for some R after all, on the mission to knock out the mortars, the simple act of sitting down after the mission was done, drinking a bottle of water, had been the most refreshing thing he felt he'd done in years! Even the hot food served — which was by no means 5-star grub — nonetheless tasted like the most glorious of ambrosia!

And then reality slammed back in and he was at the helm of the military operations in the Normandy region.

Still, those few hours of downtime had done him wonders, so he couldn't quite fathom the idea that resting was evil, or _bad_ for you. But then, it took all kinds, didn't it?

"In that case, General, let's see what we can find for you, eh?" Oliver suggested as he snapped his fingers and quickly had a tablet handed over to him. Mentally making a note to have Humboldt's forces get an extra dose of Pepper-Up potions and hot chow before deployment, he quickly read through the different operations that still needed doing.

"Right now, General, the priority is to secure our beachhead and drive the enemy back to their established line," Oliver informed Humboldt as he continued to read through the digital brief. "Taking Rouen at this juncture is probably unwise, given that it has one of the few railways still active and manned by the French forces. However, Redemption's agents inform us that a quick blitz on their defenses should at least allow us to cut off Rouen from Paris — possibly even giving us an avenue of attack at the capital itself."

Humboldt nodded as Oliver led him down a corridor on both sides of which frontline control rooms buzzed with activity. Between the A.I.s crunching data and reporting their findings, and the human staffers informing the Colonel in charge of the particular office space directing the flow of combat as best he could, it was a miracle anyone could hear each other.

Even so, Oliver kept going as he led Humboldt into another command center, the entrance of which had a rather crude sign over it that simply stated "Rouen-Le Man Front." It didn't take a genius to realize this is where the Normandy side of the invasion was being directed. No doubt the other command centers he'd seen on the way in operated for other regions, or rather more specific locales within the Normandy front.

As they walked in, Oliver was swiftly handed a tablet, which he read silently before tapping it a few times and passing it on to Humboldt, who watched as the combat operations were digitally simplified in the form of red arrows pushing towards Rouen and Le Mans.

"The problem is, Rouen is off limits," Oliver stated bluntly. "Too many villages and disputed territories either between us and them, or on either side. That highway leading to Rouen? It's still active, and we don't know how much of it is in French hands. Redemption's attempts at infiltrating the armed forces have failed miserably, and our own Special Ops teams are having a hell of a time crossing enemy lines on account of us not knowing _where_ they _are_."

Oliver tapped a few more keys, causing the map to sprout a large red arrow moving north-east. "That's why we're going to ignore the big, bright bait and give the French forces a hell of a headache," he informed Humboldt. "Using Le Havre as your base, you are to move north-east and link up with VANGUARD forces under General Longbottom's command at the town of Abbeville, which his forces will also push towards."

Humboldt's grave features deepened as he frowned. "You expect an ambush at Rouen?"

Oliver shrugged as he leaned back into his chair. "To be honest, General...yes," Oliver replied calmly. "We invaded Caen and we were smacked for it. The French gave ground until it was suitable to them, and proceeded to put our forces through the meat grinder. You avoided that at Le Havre, but it was never supposed to be a major target. Rouen is, and they _know_ we need to break that city to reach Paris. It'd be stupid of them to abandon such a major city on their line without much of a fight."

Humboldt nodded. Personally, he found himself agreeing with the assessment, and avoiding Rouen would certainly spare a lot of good men unnecessary deaths. Still, Rouen _did_ have to fall for the campaign to succeed, so he was curious how they intended to go about this task.

"Rouen is mine, General," Oliver told him simply once he'd vocalized his concerns. "But we won't advance until such a time as I deem the routes towards it safe enough for our forces to launch an attack."

"Has the Field Marshal agreed to this?" Humboldt asked, a little surprised that Oliver would take a stance that usually in direct contradiction of Speirs' shock and awe doctrine.

Oliver shrugged. "He's given every front commander ample discretionary powers in the managing of the front, so long as the overarching strategy is kept intact," he stated. "I imagine that once you link up with General Longbottom, you and he will be exercising that right as often as I will."

Humboldt wanted to press more on the issue, but let it go. Instead, he noticed that the Western front, diligently monitored on one of the side-screens, seemed to be pushing itself further east. "What about Swift?" he asked neutrally. It was no secret that both he and Swift shared a sort of rivalry, in no small part due to their differing approaches to war. Humboldt favoured tricking the enemy and drawing them into solid ambushes, while Swift was all about _élan_ and blitzkrieg attacks. _Especially_ after that debacle in the Death Eater territories. Even so, if his colleague's recklessness was going to negatively affect the campaign as a whole, he needed to know about it.

"Swift?" Oliver asked with a snort, eyeing the same map as Humboldt. "What's there to say? He broke through La Rochelle like its defenses were tissue paper, but he's over-extending himself. High Command's already ordered him to slow down. He's been ordered to move south and link up with the Spanish forces under Ruiz-Perez."

"Sir," a staffer interrupted then, walking up and saluting the two of them, prompting a similar salute from Oliver and a nod from Humboldt. "Refugee Affairs is here for your three o'clock."

Oliver nodded — another aspect to this war was that since the objective was not to merely punish but occupy, there was a great need to ensure that the populace understood that the Northern Sun was not a tyrannical force to be rejected, but rather a helping hand in rebuilding their lives.

Turning to Humboldt, Oliver saluted him, prompting a similar response. "Well then, General, that's my cue. I wish you the best of luck."

Humboldt nodded firmly. "You as well, General."

* * *

_**Kortemark, Belgium, March 29, 2017 (D-Day +57)...**_

"There, over by the café."

Josefina turned her gaze over over towards the indicated spot before raising her monocular and surveying the area, always taking great care to remain within the shadowed area of the room, right beside the window.

As her operative colleague had instructed, she noticed their target walking casually towards the café in question, a quaint little hole in the wall called Bistro Balou. Yet, for all his acting, the target had that impossible-to-hide gait of a trained soldier, making him an easy target to spot for anyone with training.

"How many?" she asked simply as she kept her monocular's gaze fixed on the man.

"Seven, but only five ever meet at any given time," her colleague briefed her as he worked with his laptop.

"And you're sure about this?" she pressed, disliking the fact that he might actually be right.

"I am," her colleague confirmed, turning the laptop to show her a picture...of the very man she'd been watching. Lieutenant Colonel Francois Laurent, _Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure_, the French external security forces.

Black Ops.

"Shit," she cursed under her breath. She'd much rather it had been the _actual_ French Special Forces Brigade, rather than those crazies at the DGSE. At least when the French SpecOps guys were around, you knew it was just for either sabotage or invasion.

When the DGSE showed up, however, everyone's day tended to get ruined.

"When did they get here?" she asked him as calmly as she could.

"Anywhere between a week or two ago," he admitted. "I didn't realize who they were until they began showing their meeting patterns. I don't think they expected any of our lads to be here."

To be honest, she could sympathize with the DGSE agents. _She_ would've never imagined a foreign intelligence agency to occupy this nothing little town in the middle of nowhere! It wasn't on a major highway, and while it did have a train station, the rails didn't exactly lead anywhere vitally important to the war effort that _wasn't_ already being stringently guarded.

Really, the only reason the Kortemark outpost — or rather one-man station — existed was as a safe house. It was so out of the way that no enemy agency would think to look here...which is ironically precisely why the DGSE had set up shop here as well.

"You better make room in this place, then," Josefina informed the man. "Because I think you're going to be getting a _lot_ of new roommates."

Ignoring the man's groan, Josefina turned away from the window and tapped her ear bud. "HQ, this is Nightshade, reporting from Sierra Hotel Kilo Zero Zero One," she spoke in a clipped tone, knowing there was no room for commentary this time around. "I'm confirming the report by Agent Shaw. Seven DGSE operatives. Recommend reinforcements and a permanent observation post to monitor them."

"_Copy that, Agent Nightshade. Your request will be transmitted to the Director_," her handler replied. "_Is there any information on their motives?_"

She glanced over at Shaw. "Any idea why they're around?" she asked him. He shrugged and shook his head.

"I'm an analyst, not a spy," he pointed out before resuming his work.

Rolling her eyes, she returned her attention to the transmission. "Negative, HQ. We are running blind here, and seven DGSE agents we know nothing about spells big trouble for us."

"_Understood, Agent Nightshade. Amending the report to reflect the urgency of the situation._"

At least she could be sure that the operatives Shaw was observing didn't know about the outpost, or else the DGSE would've had them kill the man immediately...and the worst part is that the SIS wouldn't have found out for another week, since the Kortemark safe house was so low on their priority list that it only checked in every two weeks. In all honesty, a rather comfy job.

Provided you didn't run into DGSE agents.

"Thanks, HQ. Nightshade out," she stated simply before tapping off her ear bud. Looking back at Shaw, she wondered how on earth a simple analyst like him could've had the enormously bad luck of coming across what she suspected was likely a death squad. Maybe a background check was in order?

Josefina almost sighed at herself. Had she become really this paranoid over the years? Only twenty-three years old, and already a paranoid cynic! Good grief!

"Reinforcements should be here within a few hours," she informed Shaw. "Stay out of sight, and keep HQ posted if anything weird happens."

Shaw nodded absently. "Understood, Agent Nightshade," he stated airily. No wonder he'd been assigned to this dead-end job; he was so distracted by whatever the hell he was doing that he was barely listening to her!

Frowning, Josefina nonetheless realized that she really _did_ have to go. Even knowing that the DGSE was around wasn't enough of an emergency to put off her need to report back to HQ for debriefing on her _other_ assignments. Hell, she'd only come here because HQ had ordered her to, given her proximity and the completion of her other assignments.

Going for her necklace, she quickly grasped the portkey trinket hanging on the chain and said the codeword, clenching her eyes shut as that horrible pulling feeling sucked her into whatever the hell it was that allowed her to move from one place to another. Wormhole? Fifth dimension? Hell, she didn't know or care. All she knew was that it made her want to puke every time she used one.

Reappearing within the portkey arrival station at the SIS was as noisy as she remembered it, however. A large hangar-like room where the agents were supposed to arrive, followed by what seemed like a normal airport security terminal, where scanners and all sorts of delightfully intrusive machinery made sure the arriving agents were who they were supposed to be.

And outside of her view, probably _waiting_ for someone to cause a fuss? Five teams of SpecOps operatives, fully geared and ready to cause a minor war at a moment's notice. Let it never be said that Xeno skimped on security.

Even so, she passed right through with minimal fuss — between her non-magic nature, her reputation, and her actual identification, most SIS agents tended to be overawed in her presence. She'd been at the side of the King from almost day 1, after all, and in a job environment where the life expectancy tended to be around twenty years less than the entire population, that wasn't nothing.

Making her way through the unwelcoming corridors of the agency — each corridor designed to look practically identical to every other one, in the event of a physical security breach — she nodded at a few known colleagues, ignored the others who stared at her — mostly rookies — and smiled at the few not-really-quite-there friends she had. No spy could really _have_ friends within the service...there was just no way to know whether or not they'd be traitors the next day.

Although she supposed she could claim to have one exception as a friend — Xeno. Or, at least, as much a friend as he could be while still being her only direct superior and probably the sixth most powerful man in the Northern Sun.

And was also the reason she was now walking confidently into the anteroom to his office, where his secretary — a blonde, blue eyed woman this time — nodded at her on sight.

"The Director's been expecting you, Agent Nightshade," she greeted Josefina with a stern visage. Not the sort of front-desk secretary one would expect, to be sure, but then if anyone retained a bubbly personality after a mere week into this job, she'd have to shake their hand in respect. "Please wait while I inform him you've arrived."

Josefina merely nodded, watching as the young woman pressed the dedicated intercom button and had a quick chat with Xeno — none of which Josefina could make out, as the secretary took great pains in keeping the volume down (to her credit).

Finally, the secretary looked over to Josefina and nodded. "He'll see you now."

Nodding in thanks, Josefina strode by the desk, around the wall behind it, and proceeded to walk into Xeno's office after merely knocking once — not really waiting for a prompt to come in. Neither liked to waste too much time on niceties.

"Good; you're here," Xeno greeted her simply as he sat behind his desk, apparently reading something on his tablet — no doubt some AAR that either got botched or went off without a hitch. Considering he didn't seem in a foul mood, her money was on the latter. "Take a seat."

Silently, she complied and, not for the first time since she'd heard he wanted to personally debrief her, she began to wonder why on earth she was even here. Usually, she got debriefed by some professional handler, and then went off on whatever merry havoc-wreaking mission Xeno issued her next. This was all _highly_ irregular.

"Before I get to my main point in this meeting," Xeno started, once he put down the tablet and deactivated it. Even in Josefina's sole presence, he would never allow classified information to lay about for _anyone_ to see. "I want you to tell me _exactly_ what you think of the situation at Kortemark."

Josefina frowned — hadn't she already given her opinion? Hadn't he received the report already? "I filed a report," she reminded him.

Xeno frowned right back. "I know; I read it. I want to _hear it_ from _you._" he reiterated, a not-so-subtle hint of forcefulness creeping into his voice now.

Josefina was silent for a moment as she collected her memories of the incident, then shrugged. "Fine," she acquiesced. "It merits heightened observations. Three teams, if possible. There's never been a squad of trained DGSE agents hanging around a single place who _haven't_ eventually started something worrisome."

Xeno entwined his fingers and leaned into his hands as his gaze pierced into her. "Is that your sole reason?" he asked carefully.

Josefina was now well and truly confused. Where was he going with this? "Ye—wait, no." she corrected herself, realizing that there'd been other factors in her worries. "Kortemark."

"What about it?" asked Xeno calmly.

"Exactly; what's so important about it that a squad of DGSE agents would even go there?" she asked rhetorically. "It's not near any major assets that we haven't already guarded, there's little strategic value to it, and the VANGUARD line hasn't even been broken, so it can't be preparations for an invasion!"

Xeno nodded along, piquing her increasing suspicion. What on earth was Xeno after? He was goading her along now, practically making her analyze the incident step-by-step. Like an analyst of some kind! "What else?" he asked.

"The DGSE doesn't do anything by accident," she was slower in responding now, still trying to gauge Xeno's intentions in this little exercise. Wasn't the debrief on her _actual_ mission more important? She _had_ just killed a man, after all! "It wouldn't just send a team to Kortemark for nothing, so obviously they're trying to stay under the radar. They're preparing for an op within our borders."

"Where?" Xeno asked pointedly, his stare hard and unyielding, as though he was _daring_ her to answer.

Josefina was silent for a while as she contemplated the question, knowing deep down that she had no answer for it. She'd only _seen_ the DGSE agents, not actually spied on them with any degree of depth. "I don't know," she admitted plainly, crossing her arms. "I only made the visual confirmation."

Xeno kept his stern facade up for another few moments before nodding and sitting back in his chair, his expression pensive. "Good," he stated eventually with a satisfied nod. "You'll do."

Josefina frowned. "Do what?"

"You're being promoted, Josefina," Xeno informed her bluntly. "Or rather, reassigned."

Josefina was stunned. She'd been in the field since...maybe a year after Harry had saved her from an ugly fate at the hands of drunken British infantrymen. She'd served the SIS since its informal inception during the time of the Northern Territories, and then in its official capacity after Harry had been crowned King in 2012.

She'd taken her first life — or rather allowed the Goblins to make their kill — at the tender age of 17. She'd seduced her first man at 18, and committed her first personal assassination not long after. She'd helped foil French, Russian, and other plots over her (unofficial and official) career, and sabotaged international relations more than once. Eight years of service...about to _end_?

"Why?!" she demanded, practically jumping to her feet.

Xeno was impassive as he regarded her. Even the fact that they were allies in faction did not seem to deter him from his decision. "You've done enough," he told her. "Eight years in the field in these remarkable times, for someone so young, is an amazing feat, Josefina. It's time you moved up."

Josefina knew she ought to feel proud of herself, based on Xeno's logic. That she was merely getting rewarded for all her hard work. Yet she couldn't.

She _liked_ the life in the field. The intrigue, the drama. She loved the way her work took her across nations and made her think on her feet. She may not have savoured the feeling of killing another human being, but the way her actions in doing so decisively helped the Northern cause had helped buoy her belief in the goals of the Northern Sun.

And she'd been finally repaying Harry for all the good he'd done for her...

"I belong in the field," she stated insistently, leaning on Xeno's desk and eyeing him with a rather hard expression. "Especially now, with the DGSE loose in ETO territory."

"Wolfsbane is on that," Xeno informed her, making Josefina frown. While she respected Wolfsbane enormously as a colleague, the man's loner disposition and equally impressive track record meant she also considered him her professional rival.

"Why not promote _him_?" she pushed.

Xeno stared her down. "Because unlike him, you're far more noticeable," he stated flatly. "We've been monitoring DGSE informants for a while now, remember? Their description of you has become more accurate over time. If you stay in the field much longer, they'll _know_ who you are."

Exposure — every spy's worst fear. Especially when in the middle of a covert assignment, where anonymity meant life and exposure guaranteed death.

Josefina had to restrain a grimace. She hadn't known. "Even so, what about my assignments? It's not like you can just replace me at a whim!" At least, she hoped not. Being able to do so to a professional spy usually meant they weren't all that good to begin with.

"Wolfsbane will undertake the more dangerous assignments," Xeno assured her. "There's also a few rookies running around with _some_ talent, so we'll leave the easier ones for them. It'll be good experience."

Josefina wanted to continue railing — she really did. Having her field career ended on such a sudden note was jarring. "Where are you sending me?" she asked nonetheless, defeated, knowing that if Xeno's mind was really made up about this, then no amount of pleading would get him to change his mind.

Xeno eyed her for a moment before tapping his desk with a solitary finger. "You'll stay in Operations, but I'll be expecting you to oversee and run assignments now, rather than actually participate," he informed her.

Josefina boggled at that. "You want me to be a _handler_?" she asked, dumbfounded.

"I want you to learn _patience_," Xeno stated firmly. "To learn _cooperation_. You've performed admirably, Josefina, but your track record speaks for itself. Eight years of solitary work. Eight years of minimal team assignments. You're a good spy, and a good agent, but you need to realize the magnitude of the work we do here. _You_ are _not_ the SIS," he told her. "You are an _agent_ of it. And this assignment will make you see the bigger picture."

What on earth _for_, she wondered? She'd made her peace with being the SIS' tool in promoting the Northern cause. She'd even made her peace with herself regarding her own motivations for _joining_ the Northern cause! So why did he want her to push further than that? Why shake her world?

He tapped his desk again. "You're in a remarkable position, Josefina," he reminded her. "Twenty-three, and already with more experience than many of our agents. No one's questioning your skill in the field or your intelligence; I just want to make sure your gifts are _wholly_ developed, rather than allow the enemy one more shot at putting you in the ground."

Xeno may have been talking up how much he cared for her well-being — and sure, some of that sentiment might've been true, given that despite his positions on things and his job, he was still a rather good man — but Josefina knew that wasn't the _main_ reason for it. Regardless, however, she knew she'd never get to the bottom of it. If Xeno wanted something to stay a secret, he was going to make damn sure it stayed that way.

Left with no other choice, thus, Josefina nodded her head where a soldier might've saluted. In the intelligence business, such actions tended to blow your cover, so Xeno discouraged overt salutations of the sort. "Understood," she conceded at last. "When do I begin?"

Xeno eyed her for a moment more before turning away and getting back to his tablet. "Tomorrow. There's a team slated for infiltration and sabotage of Avranche's defensive emplacements going out in the afternoon, and I want you running the op. Minimal enemy resistance, good cloud cover — should be a good assignment for you to start with. Good luck."

Nothing more needed to be said after that. Knowing she was officially dismissed, Josefina could only stiffly nod, turn, and walk out of the office.

Time to hit up a bar, damn it.

* * *

_**Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, April 5, 2017 (D-Day +64)...**_

"So what's your next move?" Harry asked the projection of Speirs, who stood at attention in his Field Marshal's olive uniform. The sole decorations Speirs had apparently chosen to wear being his campaign medal for the Anglo-Spanish War and the Death Eater campaign. He would've had many more to illustrate his colourful career, but apparently he felt those two held the most importance in this new world they were living in.

Speirs made a motion with his hand, and the digitally rendered map on the table before Harry shifted to show the army front pushing deeper into France.

"_I'm having the Austrians push towards Nancy; hopefully they'll be able to finally break the French resistance there and link up with the Luxembourgians,_" Speirs informed him.

Harry nodded, cupping his chin pensively as he looked at that particular deployment. Ever since the fall of Strasbourg, the Austrians had performed admirably against the French, if perhaps a tad more slowly than the rest of the ETO armed forces. Which was hardly a surprise for anyone understanding of their situation, given that they weren't even nearly as well equipped as the Benelux, Northern, and Spanish armies, but did mean that further ops would possibly have to wait for the Austrians to catch up.

Still, the war was going well, by all accounts.

With Strasbourg in their hands and Metz under threat, the German border with France was effectively considered shut, which in turn did give rise to multiple popular uprisings in Germany against the occupying French garrisons. While similarly technologically deficient, their neutral relationship with the Northern Sun meant that they'd been able to acquire, at the very least, enough magically-altered tech to give themselves a fighting chance.

Other fronts did just as well.

Oliver, breaking numerous expectations, was managing the Normandy campaign superbly. With the fall of La Rochelle and Caen, his forces — or those that remained under his command after much of it was redistributed to VANGUARD, anyway — he'd pushed the French out of Rennes, successfully cutting off the main French defenders from now both Normandy and Brittany, and word had it that he was now eyeing the prize of Rouen.

Swift, for his part, had characterized his campaign with lightning-quick strikes that befitted his name. From La Rochelle, his forces had pushed all the way to Bordeaux, where they finally linked up with the Spanish forces under Ruiz-Perez. And to the north, a simultaneous strikie against Nantes had secured that city's surrender after Redemption's partisans rose up in arms and began wreaking havoc on the garrison.

France was crumbling.

It was putting up a good fight, admittedly, for a nation without technology, but no matter how much time passed, it was quickly becoming obvious that the technological superiority of the Northern Sun, coupled with its superior troops and the backing of the ETO, was going to overwhelm the French.

"I agree," he finally told Speirs. "Tighten the noose. Have Ruiz-Perez move his forces up to Toulouse, and when possible, link up the Austrian and Spanish forces at Lyon. Make sure Paris understands that there's no escape."

"_There's a danger they'll overextend themselves,_" Speirs pointed out reasonably. "_The Spanish army isn't what it used to be, and the Austrians are already going to have a hell of a time taking Nancy._"

"The Dawn and its fleet can provide coastal support for the southern operation," Harry reminded Speirs. "And have VANGUARD divert some of its Air Force complement to aid the Austrians with Nancy."

Speirs was silent for a moment before nodding. "_Understood_," he acquiesced. "_I've received numerous petitions to initiate a strike on Paris itself, by the way. I assume we're still stalling?_" he asked then.

Harry nodded, his gaze still on the digital map. "Our image still isn't very positive with the French populace," he reminded Speirs. "We need to win them over before we take the capital, or else we'll be completely labeled as conquerors."

"_That might not be possible,_" Speirs pointed out. "_The idea of the Northern Sun hoarding necessary tech has a strong following in this country. They think we're extorting them._"

Harry wondered about that. True enough, the Northern reticence in sharing their magically altered tech _was_ the source of much controversy, especially given its stated goals of global peace and stability, but at the same time, it wasn't as though they would willingly give up weapons-grade FCE tech.

Yet, even with the refugee centers being built behind the front lines, there was still vocal support for the French government, and he knew that Redemption's leader had practically been bullied into helping the Northern Sun. And it was his experience that populaces who resented an occupying force — for that was _exactly_ what they were — tended to make occupation and annexation rather difficult, if not completely untenable.

"Redeploy the Military Mages," he ordered, still cupping his chin pensively.

"_Sir?_"

"I want Military Mages and any unit not currently in combat to begin aid operations for the civilian refugees and POWs," Harry explained. "Have Refugee Affairs oversee the operation; make _sure_ these people are getting what they need."

"_What if an emergency springs up?_" Speirs asked shrewdly. "_We could need those soldiers redeployed quickly._"

"Then make sure people know that from the start, but once they're out of combat, I want them helping out the locals," Harry insisted. "Make it a three-way rotation scheme. You serve in combat, you get rotated into public service, then you get leave. That way, we can avoid putting units through _too much_ combat and allow them an easier transition into leave time."

Speirs thought about that. Personally, he would have given the soldiers leave, _then_ rotated them into public service, but the overall gist of the scheme had some merit. It would, if nothing else, serve as an effective psychological campaign to wear down French animosities towards the ETO, and in some cases _could_ possibly gain them local allies. And frankly, with the skilfull way the French armies were using their terrain and sparse resources, they could _use_ local allies.

That wasn't Redemption, of course.

The problem they'd found with the French resistance group was that they were, to be brief, too radical. Which isn't the most accurate description, either. As it turned out, Redemption's followers were seen by the populace to be about as radicals, especially considering the often violent means with which they brought the fight to the government.

That meant they needed other allies; allies who wouldn't be so stigmatized.

For once, Harry was somewhat surprised that his strategy to win here wouldn't be crushing the enemy forces decisively. For once, he'd be forced to win over the hearts and minds of the people he was invading.

Huh.

* * *

_**Kortemark, Belgium, April 10, 2017 (D-Day +68)...**_

"That's weird..."

"What is?" asked Agent Ash as he continued watching a local comedy show on the telly. The noise of the show, coupled with the knowledge that people lived there, helped lend credence to their cover while they spied on the DGSE agents that the legendary Agent Nightshade had confirmed were living in this town.

Plus, y'know, crappy shows might be crappy, but they beat the hell out of staring at a wall when your shift was over.

"Frankie's not at the meeting," the agent on duty, Agent Root, pointed out as he continued his vigil over the happening at the café.

Ash sighed as he was pulled out of his TV-watching. "He's probably sick," he assured his colleague, who snorted derisively at the idea.

"A DGSE agent? On sick leave? _Really_?"

Ash frowned, not sure whether or not to smack Root for his insubordination — he _did_ outrank the noob, after all — or call it in, since it _did_ sound sort of ridiculous when he thought about it. Giving in to the Director's personal motto of "better safe than sorry" — which, truthfully, the Director had transmuted to "better to be paranoid than dead, and better to destroy than risk" — he raised his hand to his ear bud and tapped it on. "Agent Morel, any sign of Laurent at their safe house?"

There was a pause before the dulcet tones of Morel — the sole female agent in their detachment — responded. "_Affirmative, Agent Ash. Target appears to be on the phone with someone._"

Looking over to Root, Ash gave him an 'I-told-you-so' smirk. "Any luck on that wiretap?"

"_Negative. Agent Bay doesn't think he could pull off a wiretap they wouldn't immediately notice. And they're only using landlines._"

"So tap those," Ash said exasperatedly.

He could practically _hear_ the frown. "_You know we can't_," Morel chastised him. "_We can't wiretap any landlines without consent from the national government, and SIS doesn't want the Belgian authorities poking into the DGSE presence. Might scare them off._"

"Or force them into acting prematurely," Ash pointed out right back.

"_Which could be as disastrous or more than letting things develop,_" Morel shot back. "_Besides...wait._"

Ash rolled his eyes. Morel and Root tended to be so dramatic about things. "What's up?" he asked tolerantly.

"_Shut up. Bay? Get me eyes on that delivery man_," she heard Morel ask faintly over the comm. "_I thought you guys were supposed to be on top this sort of thing!_" she accused Ash once she came back. "_Turns out, they just had a delivery, and we can't tell what the hell's in the packet!_"

Okay, that _might_ actually be a problem. Straightening up, simultaneously catching Root's attention as his partner suddenly got tense, he got to his feet and went over the day log in their observations. Not once had there been any indications that the group was waiting for a delivery.

Had he dropped the ball on this? Had Root?

"What's up?" Root asked, curious.

"Frankie just got some express mail," Ash explained quickly. "I can't find...where is...damn it!" he cursed, before looking to Root. "Did either Mandrake or Aconite mention a delivery when they eavesdropped on the targets?"

Root shook his head slowly. "No..."

Cursing again, Ash went back to his comm bead. "Morel, we've got nothing here. No delivery expected. Are you sure?"

"_I just saw him sign for the bloody thing, Ash, so yes, I'm pretty damn sure!_"

"Oi, targets are moving from the café!" Root called out then, rather surprised. "They're moving back to the safehouse!"

"Morel, our targets are moving back to the house!" Ash relayed to his colleague, who cursed rather colourfully over the comm.

"_Shite! D'you think this could be it?_"

It, of course, being whatever nasty op the DGSE had planned for the war effort. Regardless of whether it was or not, the time to dick around had come and gone. An unscheduled delivery? A sudden congregation at the safehouse? Francois Laurent acting weirdly? It was time for the cavalry to ride in.

Switching frequencies on his bead, he quickly relayed the situation to Headquarters. "This is Agent Ash, reporting from Sierra Hotel Kilo Zero, Zero, One," he declared. "Targets have received an unscheduled delivery and are now congregating in full numbers at the safehouse. Recommend issuing Protocol Black!"

"_Copy that, Agent Ash. Please wait a moment while we contact Dolos,_" the operator told him. Contacting the Director of SIS was no small thing, and so within seconds the operator was back. "_Agent Ash, Dolos is authorizing Protocol Black. Good luck._"

Nodding to himself, Ash didn't dither with pleasantries but rather immediately switched over to the BlackOps team's channel, knowing they'd be listening in 24/7 in case they were needed ASAP. "Team Black, this is Agent Ash of Sierra Hotel Kilo Zero, Zero, One; I am calling Protocol Black in effect, Authorization Code Sierra India Sierra Four, Five, Four, Dash Able, Four, Three, One Seven. Dolos says green light, lads. Happy hunting."

There was no response other than a beep — which was exactly what he'd been expecting. Team Black, if they followed their training, ought to have been practically one foot out the door after he finished giving his authorization code.

Switching back to Morel's frequency, Ash felt a little alleviated now that he knew the good guys were about to shut down the DGSE cell for good. "Morel, Team Black's on the way," he informed her. "Any idea what's in the package yet?"

"..._Yeah, I do_," Morel's response piqued his interest. There was a very audible undertone of enormous stress in her words. "_Trinkets. Lots of them._"

Ash furrowed his brow. Why was that so worrisome? It probably meant that the delivery guy had given up the wrong package, or that one of the DGSE agents was a collector of some kind, or...

"_Ash, they're Portkeys._"

Ash wasted no time. He switched frequencies so quickly, he was sure he'd probably broken his comm bead. "Team Black, Team Black, this is Agent Ash!" he called out feverishly. "We've got a possible Code Outbreak! Say again, Code Outbreak! Magical artifacts in enemy hands! Double-time it, troopers!"

"_Black-Actual acknowledges; moving in for containment._"

"Outbreak?" Root asked, ashen faced. "Where the _hell_ did the DGSE get magical tech?!"

It was a fair question, though more pertinent would've been the question as to how on earth they even knew how to use it, given that "registered" mages in France were treated like third-class citizens. As for magic itself, much of the current French leadership seemed to think it was an aberration of some sort, or worse — a sign that superior humans would attempt to overthrow centuries of history for power. Either way, it was deemed too dangerous to use.

So why did the DGSE apparently not only know about it, but know exactly which items would be most useful for them?

"No wonder they chose this hole to hide," Ash spoke through gritted teeth as he awaited a report — _any_ sort of report — from Team Black. If the team failed, contingencies had to be activated immediately. Security systems in the Northern Sun and military facilities throughout the theater of war would have to be immediately reinforced to the point of locking things down.

There was just no telling what a DGSE cell could do with a box full of portkeys.

Gunfire erupted in the distance. Naturally, people in the streets below the apartment began to panic and run about for cover — none of which interested him. Rather, it meant that Team Black had made some form of contact.

"Morel, what's going on over there?" he demanded.

"_The soldier boys breached the safehouse. Looks like they got there in time._" Morel informed him, a definite tone of relief in her voice. It was a sentiment he could share.

"That's great! That's—!"

"_Wait._" the horror was back now. "_I saw something._"

"What?" Ash asked, worried again.

"_Dunno. Call up the team._"

She didn't need to tell him twice. Already switching frequencies, he just hoped everything was alright. "Black Actual, please report in."

There was a worrisome pause that did nothing to alleviate his fears. Even the gunfire had since died down. "I say again: Black Actual, please report in."

Again with the pause. Cold sweat started to form on his brow. Had the team been wiped out? Was _that_ what the gunfire was all about?

"_This is Black Actual,_" the comm eventually transmitted. It was the same man as before, much to Ash's relief.

Which, in turn, evaporated when the next bit came through.

"_Five tangos escaped, Agent Ash. Mission is a failure. I say again: DGSE agents have escaped with magical tech. Code Outbreak is now in full effect._"

* * *

_**Post-AN**: How did the SIS agents know those were Portkeys? They're SIS. And their targets are DGSE. If the DGSE gets a box full of random trinkets, it's a fair bet they're not harmless. _

_I was also asked why Ford and his men are using the characteristically Russian war cry of "Ura!" This has to do with his pre-Northern service record, which will have more of its details revealed next chapter._


	27. Chapter XXII: The Longest Week

_**AN: **So...next chapter! Huzzah! Again, many thanks to Ray for his input in crafting this chapter!_

* * *

_**Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, April 12, 2017 (D-Day +70)...**_

To say Josefina was having a bad day was an understatement.

Eleven days. _Eleven stinking days_ into her new job as assistant Operations Leader, and already the SIS had apparently dropped the ball on an intel op that could have disastrous ramifications.

Something she was _certain_ would never have happened if she'd still been in the field! Or, at least, that's what she told herself.

Regardless, it had the SIS in a frenzy. Analysts had their breaks cut and anyone on vacation was called back with absolute immediacy. Field agents had scattered to every possible High-Risk Target in the Northern Sun and its allies, focusing much of their efforts on those areas considered vital to the war effort. Even the Op Leaders, typically intelligence officers who could, in the easier missions, allow for the mission to run itself, were suddenly micromanagers, and every shred of intelligence was reviewed, double-checked, triple-checked, put through an A.I., then checked four times again.

And that was just in the _office_.

In the field, Josefina knew the agents were being sent on increasingly assassination-related missions as Xeno put his foot down and ordered every observed terrorist cell or DGSE agent eliminated. Years of work in gathering intel on these cells were deemed irrelevant in the face of Code Outbreak coming to its natural, terrible climax — these being terrorist attacks within the Northern Sun itself.

Not that they were worried of an actual infiltration into the cities by way of Portkeys, mind you. Josefina knew enough about the Reconstruction efforts after the Civil War to know that every population center in the country had an appropriate number of Anti-Apparation and Anti-Portkey wards to prevent such illegal intrusions. Non-Military mages had protested, but the risk of the skills and items being used for illegal activities was sufficient to receive the support of not only through Parliament, but also the Supreme Court.

Portkeys, in fact, were made strictly illegal outside of certain applications. No one other than paramedics and the military were allowed to even have a Portkey in their possession, and the government hadn't been shy about punishing transgressors severely.

However, even without the ability to transport a team directly into a city, Portkeys were still enormously dangerous, particularly in the hands of the enemies of the Northern Sun. _Especially_ in the hands of the DGSE.

"Ma'am, we're receiving reports from the MoM's South-West England Division that there've been no Portkey signatures within their area," an analyst on her team...Jackson, she thought...reported.

"Abbot," she stated simply, causing a nearby terminal to light up as the holographic figure of the A.I. came into being.

"_Their report is accurate, Agent Santos_," the female electronic voice concurred. Josefina grimaced. She'd been known as Nightshade, or Josefina, or a slew of other cover identities for so long that hearing her own last name had become...strange to her. A lamentable consequence of being retired from field work. "_My own analysis of their data reveals they have not missed any extraneous signals or improperly disregarded ghost signals._"

Josefina had thought so, but even so, it was her job to question everything...or at least, it was _now_.

She cursed Wolfsbane again under her breath. Why couldn't the old wolf just retire and let _her_ stay in the field? Why couldn't _he_ take this boring-ass job? Without realizing it, she'd begun biting her thumb nail in irritation, leaving her team rather uncomfortable as they let her stew in silence.

"You should expand your net to local reports," a familiar voice suddenly intruded on her less-than-amicable thoughts. Looking to her left, she realized that her supervisor, an older woman called Nicole Shang — though, in the intelligence business, who knew if that was her actual name — said with a tolerant smile. "Focusing on the portkeys is all well and good, but you've got to put that training of yours to work."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Josefina asked rather brusquely, grimacing as she realized how rude she sounded in hindsight. "Sorry, I meant..."

Agent Shang waved her off with a knowing smile. "You're not the first agent to come in from the cold and take up a desk job," she said easily. "And what I meant was...if _you_ were the one trying to infiltrate a hostile country with known magical sensors by way of a magical artifact, how would _you_ do it?"

"I'd use it to show up out...side..." the answer slowly dawned on her, and she wanted to smack herself for being so utterly stupid.

Of _course_ the DGSE wouldn't just pop up in the Northern Sun! No professional spy would ever be caught dead deliberately trying to infiltrate a country via its most well-known regulated mode of transportation!

She'd been treating them like brain-dead mages, but the truth was that they were just as normal as she or her supervisor, meaning they'd spent their whole lives not relying on magic to do their work — if they disappeared, it was just due to good spycraft, not a spell. If they infiltrated a country, it was usually via shipping or airplanes. So why had she done these agents the discourtesy of treating them like they were children?!

"Check for local reports citing unknown strangers in the vicinity," she ordered her team crisply. "Focus on groups of more than one, but don't discount any reports of shifty persons travelling alone towards any major population center."

"Try narrowing it down," advised Agent Shang after sipping from her mug of tea. "That's a whole lot of people you've just named."

Josefina nodded — it was sound advice. "They'll be travelling light — maybe without luggage, even. No credit cards, just cash."

"Or they could be using false names with untraceable plastic," Shang pointed out reasonably, causing Josefina to groan softly. Damn the woman and her reasonable points!

"Belay that last one. Check for all strange patterns of purchase, especially any materials we _know_ the DGSE loves to use in the making of explosives," Josefina corrected herself, before looking to Shang, wondering if the woman had anything else to add.

"Cameras," she simply said with a small smile.

Josefina wanted to smack her own face. "And cross-reference our DGSE database with security footage regionwide. Abbot, I want you to check every minute of footage for those agents."

"_Understood, Agent Santos_," the A.I. responded.

"It's a good start," Shang told her a few moments later, offering her a cup of tea as well — which Josefina politely declined. The former Britons might'ved loved the stuff, but she was personally much more a fan of coffee. "Don't worry so much; you're doing fine."

"Isn't it our job description to worry?" Josefina asked with a slight smile. Shang laughed at that.

"Yes, actually, but we leave that to the higher-ups, mostly," she told Josefina. "Op leaders like us? We're supposed to be the calm ones. I know you miss the adrenaline rush of your former post, Agent Santos, but the work you do here is just as vital."

"It doesn't feel like it," Josefina admitted, nursing her mug of coffee and looking a little downtrodden.

"Where do you think your intel used to come from?" Shang asked with a grin. "In fact, the intel we're gathering now will probably be used when they finally find those DGSE bastards and need to decide on a plan."

"You think so?" Josefina asked, actually a bit curious.

"Sure. I mean, it's not like those Black Ops teams can just gallivant around the Northern Sun going door to door looking for those creeps, you know? What we do here reveals patterns, behaviours. Do they go for hotels, or hostels? Do they avoid or prefer certain population centers? What sort of weapons do they have on them? All that?" she pointed then to their team as the analysts continued their frenzied work. "Leads to a successful counter-intelligence op."

"I hadn't thought of it that way," Josefina confessed, a little embarrassed that she'd taken the main office's work for granted.

Shang laughed and raised her cup in a friendly, mock toast. "Welcome to HQ, Santos."

* * *

_**Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, April 15, 2017 (D-Day +73)...**_

Sadly, not everyone was in a good mood.

Harry, upon hearing of the fuckup that were the events of Kortemark, had been about to annihilate the room he'd been standing in before Elicia had managed to calm him down, though she was equally troubled by the situation — though, granted, the most troubled she got these days was being extremely worried, as opposed to full-out enraged.

Her childhood friend John Lyles insisted that age had calmed her down; she refused to comment.

Either way, the news had not gone over well with the King, who demanded that the DGSE agents be found and their cache of Portkeys destroyed. Which, in truth, was sort of a pointless order, considering that between the law and the SIS' standard operating procedure, that was the goal to begin with.

It did leave Harry, however, with the question of what to do with the SIS. Twice, now, they'd managed to let slip major security risks through the Northern borders. Albert Hughes, predictably, reasonably pointed out that there was no way of guaranteeing a 100% success rate for _any_ organization, much less one that relied heavily on reading the actions of others in order to create successful counter-intelligence structures. Elicia, in a rare show of cross-faction cooperation, had agreed with him, and pointed out that despite the two major security breaches, the SIS had kept the Northern Sun's borders essentially impenetrable for as long as they've been in service.

Even so, did that excuse the SIS from dropping the ball again? The last time they had, they'd lost Manchester for weeks. What if the DGSE was planning on a massive terrorist attack of a similar scale?

Eventually, they'd managed to talk him down from issuing punitive measures against the SIS, but the whole affair left him quite irritated at the intelligence agency. It'd been founded to be _better_ than MI6 and the CIA. It'd been founded to keep these precise sort of dangers _away_ from the homeland!

However, his wife and advisor had a good point — whatever their faults this time around, the SIS did generally do a good job at keeping a lid on things, and the idea of punishing the agency in the middle of a war was not a sound one. Thus, he had decreed that he would defer judgment till the war's end.

For now, he had a populace to attend to and inspire in the name of the war effort.

"Tell me again what _this_ charity's about?" he asked his wife as he checked himself in the reflection of his door window. This would be the...third charity today they'd be visiting as the Royal couple.

"War orphans," Elicia told him with a tolerant smile. "You _do_ know that we're getting touched up and given new, freshly pressed clothes at the party _before_ we meet the guests, right?"

Rolling his eyes, Harry grunted in acquiescence. "Don't remind me. The Opposition keeps clamouring about financial waste? In this case, I think I agree."

Elicia giggled demurely before leaning over and straightening his tuxedo's collar. "There, all handsome again," she told him with a smile. "You _could_ just refuse to wear the things they offer you."

"Then I feel bad for the guy who coordinated everything," Harry pointed out with a self-deprecating smile. "Honestly, it's Catch-22."

Elicia just shook her head with a tolerant smile before gazing out the window, smiling at the sight of so many of Liverpool's citizens going about their business, even this late at night. Truly, the city had become a vibrant hub of activity, rivalling even London in its prime. "I wish Katie could've come with us," she said absently.

"You know how it is," Harry reassured her by putting grabbing her hand and giving it a soft squeeze. "These events...they're boring for children. All adults, fussing over this and that, swarming us every time they think we're about to speak just to look like they know something about the topic when the picture gets taken..."

"At least Cecilia's with her," Elicia agreed reluctantly. While initially not too crazy about her new babysitter, Katie _did_ eventually warm up to the ex-Death Eater, even if Astoria insisted on keeping the woman under constant vigilance.

"Our Katie's strong, Ellie," Harry assured her with a smile. "She'll be fine."

"I suppose, but...what's going on?" she asked suddenly, feeling the car slow down. They weren't anywhere near their destination yet, so why was the car stopping?

Harry furrowed his brow, equally confused by the sudden halt in their motorcade. Leaning to the side, he pressed the intercom that connected him with the driver. "What's going on up there, Lieutenant?" he asked.

"_Seems like the local bobbies set up a detour, Your Majesty_," the trained bodyguard/driver informed his charges. "_Captain Nichols is getting them to let us through._"

"_This is Hawk,_" Harry then heard Astoria's voice cut into the intercom, its owner no doubt perched atop a nearby building, keeping a vigilant eye on the motorcade alongside numerous other of his Military Mage bodyguard detail. "_With all due respect, I suggest we abort the trip._"

"We've got just the one charity left, Hawk," Harry assured her. "Let's just get through this and call it a night."

"_...Understood, Your Majesty_." Astoria reluctantly acquiesced. Obviously, something was sitting wrong with the chief of his bodyguards, but as far as Harry was concerned, between the motorcade and the Military Mage escort, who'd be dumb enough to launch an attack now?

Indeed, as he expected, the policemen outside had apparently decided not to push their luck, and quickly bugged out, sprinting away from the motorcade as though their lives depended on it. Astoria, taking note of this, quickly radioed it in, followed by Captain Nichols' own report.

"Apprehend them and have a team secure the detour route," Harry lazily ordered. Turning to Elicia, he smiled at his fretting wife. "See? All good."

"What could they have wanted, though?" Elicia mused worriedly. "Any casual inspection would've given them away..."

Harry waved off the concern as the motorcade pushed past the detour signs, along its pre-planned route. "Criminals are always looking for a quick pound, love. They probably figured dressing up as officers would allow them to rob innocent civilians."

"I suppose..." Elicia agreed reluctantly, slowly leaning back into her seat.

"_Motorcade is back on track, Your Majesty,_" their driver informed them. "_ETA to the charity is five min—"_

Whatever the man had been about to say was cut off as an ear-splitting explosion rocked the area, prompting the car to come to a screeching halt as their driver's combat instincts kicked in.

Harry was quick to tune into the bodyguard detail's radio frequencies, and in an instant the device blared to life with chatter. "_Holy shit! Captain Nichols' vehicle just exploded!_" was the first coherent thing he heard after the litany of surprised cursing.

"_Ambush! Ambush!_" another repeated somewhat unnecessarily.

"Lieutenant, get us out of here!" Harry ordered crisply, already ready to bring up a shield to protect the car if necessary. he'd even pulled her out of her seat and onto his lap, where she curled in his embrace, completely terrified at this sudden deja vu of the previous attempt on her life.

"_This is Lieutenant Morgan!_" their driver transmitted, retaining some of his cool under pressure, which was commendable. "_Open up the rear! I'm getting Zeus and Juno out of here!_"

As the man spoke, Harry felt the car jerk backwards as, true to his word, the driver pretty much floored the accelerator on reverse and started backing out of the route, the cars behind them no doubt doing the same to let them pass.

And then another explosion, this time nearly ejecting Harry and Elicia into the seats in front of them as something pushed their limousine forward.

"_Jesus! Our rear's gone!_" came the horrified transmission from one of the remaining vehicles.

"_We're sitting ducks! Everyone get the fuck out of your cars!_" ordered another, which Harry knew was a damned mistake.

"Belay that!" Harry ordered. "If they've got explosives rigged, there has to be a backup team ready to —"

Too little, too late. Members of his bodyguard detail in the car in front of them had scrambled out of their car, only to figure out too late what Harry was referring to. From the apartments straddling both sides, gunmen began opening fire on the motorcade, cutting down the bodyguards in a matter of seconds.

"_This is Hawk! Hold on, we're coming back for you!_" Astoria's voice cut in then, distracting the remaining members of Harry's detail from the horror they'd just witnessed.

"Get the Ministry of Magic on the line!" Harry shouted at the driver. "Tell them to bring down the Portkey wards!"

"_Yes, sire!_" the Lieutenant's voice answered levelly, yet still unable to hide the undertone of creeping panic. So much so that he didn't seem to realize the intercom was still on when he made his call to the MoM. "_This is Lieutenant Morgan of His Majesty's Life Guards to any and all Ministry of Magic personnel! We are currently under attack and require the disabling of the Portkey wards for emergency evacuation! All avenues of escape are cut off! I say again: we are under attack and cannot escape!_"

"Harry..." Elicia whimpered into his chest, clutching at him tightly, a move he reciprocated.

"We'll be fine, love, I promise," Harry swore, feeling his own fury skyrocket even higher with every passing second. Not only were these assholes trying to kill him, but they were endangering his _wife_ as well?! If it wasn't for the fact that he had no idea whether there were innocent civilians around or not, he'd have torched the entire area from the get-go!

"_Please! This is Lieutenant Morgan of His Majesty's...oh god...FU—"_

Whatever it was that cut off their driver, the Royal Couple wasted no time in finding out as another explosion rocked their world...but this time, it was their own car.

* * *

When Astoria reached the motorcade, it was already all over.

She and the Military Mages, certain that the two fake police officers had been attempted to divert the motorcade to the real ambush site, had given pursuit up to the point when they heard the deafening explosion coming from the direction of their charges.

Realizing on the spot they'd been duped, Astoria had immediately backpedaled and begun sprinting back towards the motorcade, each subsequent explosion causing her heart to skip a beat as she desperately tried to keep away the idea that perhaps that explosion had killed the monarch she'd come to admire.

Her Military Mages were no different, and not a single one spoke a word until they reached the burning remains of the motorcade, immediately horrified by the numerous charred bodies littering the area, as well as those corpses of the bodyguards who'd tried to make for safety.

"Find him," Astoria spoke softly, yet none failed to hear her. There was no need to ask whom they needed to find, either, and each of her ten Military Mages dashed past her wordlessly as they began looking for their King and Queen.

Astoria, however, was in shock. How had she failed her King so horribly? Why had she given pursuit to the fake cops, instead of sending another team to do so? She could've been here. She could've stopped this with her magic! She could've...she could've...!

"HERE!" she heard one of her mages yell suddenly, breaking her from her stupefied trance.

Ignoring the sound of sirens rushing towards them, Astoria broke into a sprint as she went for the mage who alleged to have found the King...whatever his state.

And sure enough, there she was, kneeling over the King's motionless body, her hands on his body as she channeled healing magic. He needed it — between the bleeding from his head and the horrible angle his arms were at, Astoria would've declared him dead on sight.

But Merlin must've been watching out for them, because it was apparently not so. Or rather, she could still see where the shield spell had carved into the car and protected him and his wife — she guessed the impact of the explosion had hurled him with enough strength to lose his grip on his wife and hit something, hence the wounds.

"He's alive, but barely," her subordinate informed her with a desperate look. "Those wards need to come down _now_ or he'll never make the emergency room!"

Astoria nodded, in complete agreement with the mage. Turning to her other subordinates, who were all hovering around the King's body, she realized something then.

"Where's the Queen?" she asked, a little surprised no one had reported her location.

"She's gone, ma'am," one of them informed her, shifting uneasily from one foot to another.

"What do you mean, gone?" Astoria asked in a deadly whisper. Did they mean she was dead? If so, she could not imagine anyone surviving Harry's fury upon finding out.

"We can't find her, ma'am," the mage clarified, allowing her to breath easy once again. "She should've been near His Majesty, but her body's...just not here."

"Hawk, the King needs that evac _now_," the mage kneeling at the King's side reminded her urgently, making Astoria realize she was mixing up priorities.

Immediately going for her ear bud, she scowled as she changed frequencies to that of the Ministry of Magic's emergency hotline. "This is Military Mage Hawk of His Majesty's Life Guards, authorization code November-Sierra. Mike-Mike-Zero-One. Zero-Zero-One-Seven. Alpha-Golf-Zero-Four-Two. Password is Churchill. We have a Case Black; say again, Case Black! We have the King in safe custody but he requires immediate CASEVAC to any nearby hospital!" she declared stiffly. "You will bring down the portkey wards in the next five seconds or so help me I will have you _hung _for_ treason! _Juno is still MIA! Require backup for SAR operations!"

If the people at the Ministry had thought Morgan's call for help had possibly been a hoax, there was no mistaking the malice in Astoria's voice as she made her vow. Also, by now, every ministry in the country would've found out about the attack, and so Astoria was pleased to see that the wards briefly illuminated the sky above her as they receded, followed quickly by an incoming transmission.

"_This is Ministry of Magic Operative Lawson; Codes are confirmed, __Portkey wards are down. Re-engaging in one minute._"

"More than enough time, Ministry; Hawk out," Astoria replied before nodding to the mage. "Do it."

With a nod in return, the mage placed a portkey on the King's chest, made him grab it, and then, covering his hands with hers, activated it. With nary a sound, the two were gone — no doubt already at the door of some E.R., roaring for the paramedics to help her.

Meanwhile, however, Astoria had other issues that needed solving. That minute-long recession of the wards could've let the terrorists, apparently now also Royal kidnappers, get away. That was unacceptable. Switching frequencies, she quickly tuned in to the emergency channel for the SIS. "SIS, SIS, this is Military Mage Hawk of His Majesty's Life Guards, authorization code November-Sierra-Mike-Mike-Zero-One-Seven-Zero-Zero-Four-Two. We have a Case Black. Say again: Case Black. Zeus is in custody and has been CASEVAC'ed, but Juno is still MIA. Request all trackers be turned on ASAP."

Whatever the SIS' faults, being slow on the uptake was _not_ one of them. "_Copy that, Hawk. Transmitters are coming online in three...two...one...mark,_" the SIS operator informed him. "_Hawk, _

Looking to her mages, she glared at each one fiercely. "Scour this area," she ordered, her anger bleeding through her orders. "I want every house searched. I want every nook and cranny documented. I want every piece of information you can get me on who did this. We will find the Queen!" she declared, sweeping her hand out to point at each of them. "We are His Majesty's Life Guards, and we will not fail again!"

The thumping of boots on the ground and fists to chests resonated, each mage ignoring the police, paramedics, and firemen arriving on the scene at last. "Yes, ma'am!"

* * *

_**Saint Quentin, France, April 15, 2017 (D-Day +74)...**_

If the DGSE had expected the attack on the King and Queen to crush the spirits of the Northern forces, they were in for a rude surprise.

Once the word had gotten out about the attacks, Sirius and Joshua had, with William, stirred up a vengeful frenzy that would've made Albert Hughes proud. In part fueled by their own impotent rage at the monarch's condition and their outrage at the Queen's apparent kidnapping, the three men managed to bring the Northern forces into a fanatic state as they redoubled efforts to avenge the slight towards their nation, though they took great care to leave out the exact details of the attack or the fact that the Queen was missing. In particular, the edict demanding that forces limit collateral damage was scrapped, and the Northern brass relished as they were finally allowed to bring their forces fully to bear.

The rage of the Northern Sun was made even worse when reports filtered in that the Royal Palace had been attacked as well, with armed gunmen and rogue mages apparently seeking to either harm or kidnap the Royal Heiress. Thanks to Cecilia, the Queen's lady-in-waiting and the Heiress' nanny, however, the Princess had remained safe while the Palace Guards killed nearly every last intruder. Though personally wounded fighting what she'd reported to be rogue mages and DGSE agents, the young woman had kept the attackers at bay long enough for the Palace guards to overwhelm their opposition.

The few that survived quickly wished they hadn't.

Sent to the budding SIS prison complex in Saint Quentin, France, these sad saps quickly became intimate with the SIS' interrogation techniques, which, as they learned, included being shut into a room with a werewolf.

"Where is the Queen?" Wolfsbane snarled as he held up the prisoner by the neck, his glare fierce, bordering on feral. While the transmitter on the Queen _was_ working, neither the SIS nor the Ministry of Magic had predicted that the transmitter would have its signals scrambled while in Europe due to the effects of SUCKERPUNCH — another unforeseen effect of the damned plan. Even worse, SIS analysts had stated that they were almost certain that the device might've been damaged in the assault, disallowing their readings from zeroing in on her exact location.

"_Va te faire foutre, enculé!_" the prisoner gasped out, his own expression defiant. Even now, the prisoner tried to kick at Wolfsbane, no doubt in his mind fulfilling some glorious resistance towards the foreign invaders.

Sadly for him, SIS had effectively lost its patience with this last attack.

"Wrong answer!" the SIS agent snarled before slamming him down onto his chair and looking at the window. "Mind Reader! NOW!" he barked.

Within seconds, a single man strode into the room wearing the uniform of a Military Mage, albeit with one significant departure — his uniform was slate-grey, as opposed to the navy blue of the combat mages. This marked him as an Intelligence Mage.

"You wanted the hard way? You're getting the hard way," Wolfsbane told the prisoner, who seemed to understand just what was about to happen and had begun cursing at the Intelligence Mage and trying to get as far away as possible. An act made impossible by Wolfsbane keeping him firmly on his chair.

Meanwhile, the mage sat on the other side of the table and leaned forward, grasping the prisoner's shaking, cursing head with both hands and keeping it steady. "Keep him steady, Agent Wolfsbane," the mage told his field colleague. "The procedure tends to have severe effects on normal human physiology. I can't guarantee the soundness of his mind."

"He tried to kill the Princess," Wolfsbane stated flatly, while the prisoner whimpered and tried shaking his head and moving away, still cursing quite profusely. "Fuck his mind up."

The Intelligence Mage kept his gaze steadily on the field agent for a moment before shrugging and making eye contact with the prisoner. Technically, the only reason this was even legal was because of the assassination attempt; otherwise, performing this sort of technique on a regular human, _especially_ a POW, with such utter disregard for their well-being would've been considered a war crime in the Northern Sun.

"_Legilimens_!" incanted the mage. Predictably, the prisoner screamed all he was worth and began undergoing spasms as the mage effectively ripped his mind apart with magic, seeking and committing to memory everything the prisoner knew.

Observing the proceedings from beyond the two-way mirror to the interrogation room, Josefina felt nothing for the prisoner. Her loyalties had always been to the King first and foremost — country be damned otherwise. To have heard, from all the way in SIS headquarters, that he'd been the target of another ambush, and had almost died from it, conjured up terrible memories of the war in Spain. Not only that, but he was effectively the only father figure she had left in her world. Her biological parents were long dead, and Xeno was always more of a superior officer than even just a friend.

Josefina owed everything to Harry, and so as far as she was concerned, the pieces of trash who'd tried to kill him, who'd kidnapped the love of his life, and had tried to harm his daughter? They could all burn in hell.

"The other prisoner was a bust," Xeno informed her as he walked up from behind, momentarily catching her off-guard.

Turning her head slightly to the side to acknowledge his presence, she quickly reverted her sights to the prisoner interrogation before her. "That's three failures," she remarked icily.

"There's two more still waiting in their cells," Xeno reassured her, knowing how deeply her emotions were running on this one. "If you want to take some time off..."

"No," Josefina's answer was quick and final. Glancing to her superior, she amended her statement. "No, sir. Thank you."

A moment of silence passed between the two.

"The King's going to make a full recovery," Xeno informed her suddenly, prompting a nod.

"I know."

"He's still unconscious — the head trauma was more severe than Astoria had first thought," Xeno went on to say, ignoring her response. "But the docs are planning to bring him out of the coma they put him in by the end of the week."

"I know," Josefina answered again. Why was he telling her what she already knew? She'd been among the first of Harry's known associates who'd reached the hospital upon news of the attack. She'd quite literally dropped whatever she was doing and had made a beeline for the hospital. Only the King's family had beat her to him.

Which only reminded her of how angry she was. Visiting the King in the hospital, which had been fortified all to hell by the military just in case some dumb fuck decided to try his luck on a follow-up attack, she'd seen his daughter curled up on a couch next to his bed, sleeping peacefully but showing all the signs of having cried her eyes out. Even in her sleep, she'd been whimpering, making her grandmother sob all over again and her grandfather look like he could punch through solid concrete.

They could've turned her away, Josefina knew. After all, who was she but the orphan Harry had brought home from the war? Her interactions with the family were so limited that other than William, no one in Harry's family actually knew her.

But they hadn't. Upon identifying herself, James and Lily had welcomed her with open arms — the Potter matriarch had even actually hugged her, telling her she was glad to finally meet her.

"Do you understand why I'm saying this?" Xeno asked impassively as he watched the Intelligence Mage withdraw from his mental attack on the prisoner's mind. Said poor sap was now babbling incoherently and drooling like a Pavlovian-trained dog. Both Josefina and Xeno watched as Wolfsbane and the mage conversed in hushed tones before tensing as the mage turned towards them and gave them a thumbs up.

"We have two days to get the Queen," Josefina stated simply, feeling a surge of relief. "Give me this op, sir, and we'll only need one."

Xeno was silent as he watched Wolfsbane and the mage abandon the broken prisoner in the room. The DGSE agent's mind would never function properly again; what the Intelligence Mage had done had practically ripped every cognitive process apart. Even so, the populace needed their scapegoats, so he would be another for the hangman's noose.

"Do it," he ordered simply, somewhat surprising her. A rookie like her wouldn't have usually landed such an important assignment. The only explanation was that either Xeno was exercising his discretionary powers to put her in charge, or Shang had advocated for her. "One team; one day. I want the Queen at the King's side before he wakes up."

Josefina nodded. "Yes, sir."

* * *

_**Olympus Main Operating Base, Brussels, Belgium, April 16, 2017 (D-Day +74)...**_

Seventy-three days of combat.

That's how long it took for Ford's unit to get rotated out for leave. From the paradrop into Caen, to Le Havre and every hell-hole in between and thereafter, Ford's unit had been apparently slapped with a "too good to be on leave" sticker and become his CO's go-to guy for problem-shooting.

Sometimes quite literally having to shoot the problem.

Not now, though. _Fortunately_, the war had taken a turn for the better, as the news came in from the homeland about the attack on the Royals. Details remained sketchy, but Ford and the rest of the soldiers of the Northern Sun had understood that, failing in battle, the French government had decided to try and knock them out of the fight by hitting their King and his family.

Sadly, that strategy only really worked when dealing with tyrants, which their King certainly wasn't.

Instead, the army was galvanized, and more than a few shaky units had rallied at the news and pulled off some incredible heroics, gaining the E.T.O. forces several strategic footholds across the country, each one bringing the Northern dagger closer to the heart of France.

Ford, for his part, hadn't taken the news to heart. Yes, he found the French actions despicable. Yes, it angered him that they had even tried to kill a child. Yes, he was insulted as a Northerner at this attack on their homeland.

But could it affect the way he ran his unit? No — he couldn't afford that. His men followed him in his crazy stunts because they knew he probably had a sound plan backing it up; or, failing that, had the brains to improvise one on the fly. If he suddenly turned into a fanatic, however, he'd just get them all killed.

"_The train is arriving at Olympus Base in five minutes. All personnel, please be ready for unloading,_" the speakers sounded then.

Looking up, Ford blinked away his daydreaming and looked to his left, where Liam was snoring rather loudly as he rested with his chin on his chest. Nudging his friend, he smirked as he watched Liam snap out of his sleeping rather suddenly, already reaching for his absent weapon — all surrendered before even getting on the train and being transported in a specialized, armoured compartment.

"Wha—?" Liam asked, still trying to get his bearings straight.

"Rise and shine, Corporal," Ford told him. "ETA is less than five mikes. Get the others ready."

Groaning, Corporal McNamara pushed himself out of his seat and walked back towards the rest of the unit, from where Ford could hear more than a few surprised curses as they, too, were no doubt woken up quite suddenly by their Corporal.

Ford chuckled — the first time in so long, he thought — as he watched the scenery pass by, soon blending in nature with the beginnings of a military installation, soon dominated solely by the latter. Soldiers, tanks, APCs, and all manner of other vehicles moved about as the MOB readied reinforcements for the VANGUARD front.

None of which, honestly, was his problem.

He belonged to the Normandy front, so his _sole_ preoccupation right now was how best to find the nearest goddamned bar and toast to having lived through seventy-three days of practically non-stop combat! Then he'd toast to getting all his men out alive, where many, many more he knew hadn't been so lucky.

"Section's ready, Sarge," Liam informed him as he returned to his seat, just as the train started to decelerate. "Told them to meet after the check-in station, in case we got split up."

"Good call," Ford said, nodding. He eyed his friend for a moment, noticing the stiffness with which he moved his left arm. "Wound bugging you?"

"Nah," Liam waved away the concern. "Just stiff from sleeping on it too often."

Bullshit. But then, Ford wasn't about to reprimand him for trying to act tough. Thousands more had done the same before, and thousands would continue to do so all the time. For some, hospital time was the difference between breaking down and staying sane. For others, however, the time they spent away from their mates was like torture. Liam, of course, fell in the second category.

Apparently, he'd absconded from the hospital as soon as possible — Ford even wondered if perhaps he'd gone AWOL after recovering sufficiently — and returned to his unit. Since the MPs hadn't shown up, Ford decided to simply keep mum and assume all was right in the world. Either Liam's attending doctor agreed with him, or the steady tide of patients was keeping the hospital from reporting Liam.

"Right," Ford agreed disbelievingly. "Just make sure you keep off that arm; can't have it going bad on you in the middle of a fight," he reminded Liam, who rolled his eyes.

"Please, Sarge; I've pulled your sorry ass out of the fire like, what...five times? I'm more worried about _you_."

"_Now arriving at Olympus Main Operating Base_," the speakers spoke out then, catching both NCOs' attention. "_Please remember to offload in an orderly manner and proceed to the check-in station. All instances of noncompliance will be treated as grounds for detention and investigation._"

"Cheery," Liam snarked with a sardonic smirk before getting up and reaching for his duffel bag. Following him out, Ford did the same and slung the bag over his left shoulder before looking back at the others in the train compartment — King and the rest had opted for seats further back; some knuckleheads had decided to sit down in the middle, leaving little room for other units to stay together.

"King!" Ford shouted, catching the soldier's attention. "Remember, Check-In station!"

"Ura, Sarge!" King shouted back before turning to his fellow section mates and likely relaying his instructions.

"So, what's first on the agenda, boss?" Liam asked him as they offloaded onto the platform, both soldiers noting the rather large amount of soldiers apparently joining them for the weekend in Brussels. That could spell either trouble, or a heck of a time. "Beers, briefings, or barracks?"

"Briefing for me; you get the idiots settled in," Ford stated evenly as they joined the mass of soldiers headed for the check-in stations. "Fuck, how many people _are_ here on leave?"

Liam chuckled, allowing the bustling crowd to move around him, though never allowing himself to be cut off from Ford. "Too many people for ya, Sarge?"

"Fuck no; just wish they'd been around for Le Havre!"

Liam laughed at that; Ford's rather batshit crazy stunt of two-manning a breach in the Le Havre containment defences had become rather of a running joke in the section. As King told it — and Ford refused to comment either way — whatever crazy sauce General Wood had drank to get him to perform a one-man parachute-less drop several times, he'd obviously shared with Ford.

For it, though, Liam had dubbed him Wildcard. Because, as Liam put it, you "never knew what the _fuck_ the Sarge was going to pull out of his ass this time around."

Once through the check-in station — just some guys (and gals) asking to see their leave papers and informing them of basic regulations every soldier really ought to know by now — he waited long enough for Liam and the rest of the unit to get together before breaking off, promising to come back soon for them so they could then go out as a unit for a celebratory drink.

And as King had been complaining again, Ford dumped his duffel bag on the Private and ordered him, rather cheekily, to take it back to the barracks. As he walked away, he could still hear the unit laughing at their comrade, who really ought to have known better by now.

Walking through the base, throwing up the occasional salute where appropriate, Ford felt glad to finally just _relax_. A stern, no-nonsense leader in combat, Ford was more than glad to shelve that attitude off the battlefield — even if his unit swore up and down he was some sort of robot.

He felt his eyes wander a little as a few rather charming young women in uniform passed him, but kept his pace and direction towards the command building, where he knew he had to at least check in just in case the Lieutenant got saddled with some last-minute mission that Command felt was absolutely indispensable — in his experience, few were. If that was the case, however, the Lieutenant would want him on hand; the last thing a CO wanted to do was hunt down their partying unit for an important mission.

Saluting the guards and showing his ID, Ford easily got access to the building and was directed towards the briefing room. On the way, however, something rather strange happened — two persons wearing the infamous uniform of the Military Mages practically tackled by him, making for the exit. Refraining from cursing at them — he was probably within earshot of some rather ranking people here — he merely settled for a glare at their backs before walking into the briefing room which, to his surprise, was actually so tense he instinctively quieted his footsteps, lest someone draw a gun and start shooting.

Making his way towards his Lieutenant, he pushed past a few officers and NCOs, all of whom looked about ready to tackle him to the ground and kill him for doing so, and found him sitting at a crescent shaped table. Leaning in, he tapped his CO on the shoulder before speaking. "Sergeant Ford reporting for duty, sir," he whispered.

The Lieutenant had practically jumped at the shoulder tap, but settled down quickly upon seeing Ford. Nodding at the man's words, the man quickly returned his eyes to the empty spot in front of the table, where someone far higher ranking was apparently being waited on.

"Sir, what's going on?" Ford decided to ask; even during wartime, this sort of atmosphere in a briefing room usually heralded some pretty awful news.

His Lieutenant's eyes snapped to him, half-glaring — oddly looking confused at his presence. "Dunno," he admitted reluctantly. "Something to do with the attacks in Liverpool, I hear."

"Shit," Ford swore under his breath. Like anyone _not_ living under a rock, Ford was well aware of the official story regarding the events at Liverpool, but he'd pushed that as far away from his mind as possible to be able to function well in combat. He knew others hadn't been so even-tempered, which had been both a boon in taking several strategic locations, but had also resulted in a spike of deaths as the more fanatic troopers began acting recklessly out of revenge.

Now that the situation in the homeland was being brought up again, however, Ford felt himself get a little angry.

Whatever it was that he was feeling, however, was quickly shelved as the very last person he expected to see at this briefing walked in. General Neville _fucking_ Longbottom, Commander in Chief of the VANGUARD forces and Second-in-Command of the France Campaign, directly under Field Marshal Speirs.

"ATTENTION!" someone shouted, and everyone, both sitting and standing, snapped to a rigid stance, saluting the General as he briskly took to the center of the briefing area and saluted them back.

"At ease!" he ordered, prompting everyone _not_ in his staff to relax and retake their seats, where appropriate. Sweeping the room with his eyes, he nodded firmly. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," he greeted the room, ignoring the call-back. "You have been asked to be here by your COs because you are considered among the finest field officers in your units and the most flexible in thought."

Suddenly, Ford felt like an intruder. He'd thought this to be simply part of the usual routine, but apparently he'd walked in on something rather important. Perhaps it was time to get out while he still could?

"As you may have heard, Liverpool underwent simultaneous attacks yesterday evening," Neville continued his briefing, unknowingly stopping Ford from making his exit. As uneasy as he was being there, Ford _was_ curious about what had gone down in the homeland. "What you do _not_ know is that the attacks were deliberately aimed at the Royal Family, and partially succeeded."

He might as well have detonated a frag grenade in the room, for all the commotion _that_ particular announcement caused. Disciplined soldiers they might all have been, but the idea of terrorists managing to land a blow to the Royal Family _again_ (all of them remembering grimly the attack that had years ago resulted in the eventual collapse of the United Kingdom) was rather hard to swallow.

"No one is dead, that we know of," Neville ploughed on then, apparently using some magic to increase the volume of his voice, because despite the shouting Ford could hear him perfectly. In any case, it served to calm down the crowd somewhat. "But the King's in bad shape, and the Queen is missing."

He nodded to Ford's Lieutenant then, who'd raised his hand. "Sir, what do you mean, _missing_?"

"She was kidnapped," Neville answered bluntly before nodding to one of his staffers, who fired up a projector, quickly showing photographs of the ambush scene. "We recovered the bodies of every single person at the scene, dead or alive. The entire security team was accounted for, as was the King and a couple of the terrorists. However, the Queen's person was and still is missing."

The photographs continued to switch as he spoke. "SIS believes her kidnapping to be a crime of opportunity. The layout of the ambush, and the multi-layered tactics, the IEDs, and other heavy equipment heavily suggests that the initial purpose of it was to outright kill the King and whoever was with him, so we do _not_ think the terrorists were even expecting to find her alive."

"How do we know she's alive, sir?"

"_SIS confirms their tracker's still transmitting her vitals strongly,_" a voice broke in, just in time for a pad near Neville to burst with light, soon materialized into the shape of General Oliver Wood, whose mere presence served to raise Ford's fears even higher. Amazing officer though Wood was, Ford knew that if he was around, then the situation was even more FUBAR than it already seemed to be.

"Jesus, Batshit Ollie's in on this too?" Ford heard one of the other NCOs mutter to another colleague. Ford had to bite back a chuckle at Wood's more informal nickname, courtesy of McNamara, who'd been relating the story of Wood's one-man dive-bombing and described the General's fall from the sky as being like bat shit.

"This is just getting better and better..." the other sergeant agreed sarcastically.

"Wood, right on time," Neville greeted his colleague.

"_General_," Oliver greeted back before turning to the assembled officers and NCOs. "_Gentlemen, SIS has acquired information which, combined with the signal from the Queen's transmitter, has allowed us to narrow down her position to this __one square mile area,_" the hologram turned towards the pictures still being projected, now obviously a satellite image of said particular area.

"This particular piece of real estate before you is called Chiny," Neville informed his audience. "It's small, on the border, and we've lost contact with the residents as of oh-two hundred hours last night. It's not large, but it's got enough residences and buildings to make having look for the damn safe house on foot a goddamn nightmare."

"Fortunately, we will have a drone in the air," Neville continued, nodding when he witnessed numerous of the officers and NCOs give sighs of relief. Ford, being a veteran of the former United Kingdom armed forces, had too missed the flying death machines. "Unfortunately, it will be solely in the air for recon, and it _cannot_ be of any combat support." This time, he nodded at the groans and confused looks. "The terrorist attacks that killed the power in Europe and around the world have made the use of drones extremely problematic, even with the FCE upgrades. Just getting this one bird in the air was a miracle, people."

Oliver's holographic form nodded. "_One hour. That's how long it'll be up there, but in that time we expect to have found the safe house and guide in the assault team._"

"Now here's the deal, soldiers," Neville carried on, crossing his arms over his chest and pacing the area. "We need volunteers for the rescue op. But not just any grunts. I need you lot to tell me which of you can pull off this mission, or tell me who _can_. I don't need glory hounds, and I sure as _hell_ don't need charge-first-think-later types either! I'd have requested an SIS Black Ops team, but they've been scattered across Europe in support of the war effort and so the pound stops with _us_."

He paused now, got to the table, and leaned on it, gazing sternly at his audience. "We are not talking about rescuing your run of the mill hostages. We are talking about rescuing the _Queen_ from a situation we are not fully understanding of yet. We have two Military Mages on hand who _will_ proceed with the mission regardless of whether or not any of you step forward, but I'd much rather send in a fully manned mission than risk everything on two people," he informed them.

Still standing in his holographic form, Oliver nodded. "_There's no turning back once you volunteer,_" he reminded them. "_So if anyone wants to step forward, now's the time._"

Dead silence. You could've dropped a pin and it would've made the loudest noise in the room. Officers and NCOs were staring at each other as they silently communicated, trying to reasonably judge themselves worthy of this enterprise. For many, the decision not to step forward was a no-brainer. They knew what they were capable of, and this was just too far out of their leagues. For others, it was more a matter of nerves and the realization that they could not even offer a guarantee to themselves that they wouldn't choke.

Fortunately for all, no hotheads had been inadvertently invited to the briefing; in that, the General's staff had done their jobs well. However, it did seem to leave a dearth of volunteers, which disappointed Neville greatly. Sighing, the General started to stand up when suddenly he saw someone raise their hand.

"I'll go, sir," said Ford as he pushed his way forward, shocking even his CO as he came within full view of General Longbottom. "My section and I will go, if you'll have us, sir."

Ford surprised even himself. Now, he wasn't one to shy from danger, but what he was now volunteering for, by the looks of it, was practically a suicide mission, considering how little they knew about what to expect. Even so, he'd found himself stepping forward, raising his hand, and opening his mouth, despite his misgivings.

Maybe it was a little due to the disappointment he felt when he saw no one else speaking up. Or maybe it was an innate sense of duty. Maybe he just had a death wish and didn't realize it — he honestly didn't know.

Or maybe it was the thought that if no one grew a pair and did this mission, a little girl back home would be missing her mother.

Most likely, it was all of those reasons, but as Ford spoke up, he didn't care which one was more valid. All he knew was that if no one else was going to be man enough to try, then he wasn't going to let the Airborne down by backing down from a fight.

He saw respect reflected in Longbottom's eyes. And perhaps in Wood's too, but the man was a hologram right now, so who the fuck knew?

"What's your name, soldier?"

Ford saluted crisply. "Sergeant John Ford, First Platoon, Able Company, First Paras," he introduced himself as ordered.

He heard more than saw his lieutenant stand up beside him. "He's my section leader for Delta Section, sir," the lieutenant added.

Neville eyed Ford for a moment before paying the lieutenant any attention. "He could be a sewer rat for all I care, Lieutenant," Neville told the man flatly. Nodding to Ford, he asked, "You good at your job, sergeant?"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

Neville continued his visual inspection for a moment before turning to Oliver. "Wood?" he prompted.

Everyone waited with baited breath to see what he'd say. Oliver allowed a small smile to grace his holographic features. "_I remember you, Sergeant,_" he stated with genuine respect. "_You were there with me for Operation Cobra, right?_"

"Sir, Yes, sir," Ford answered again, straight to the point.

Wood nodded before glancing at Neville. "_He's good, Wenshi,_" he addressed his colleague by means of his codename. "_Flexible, brave, thinks on his feet. I heard he distinguished himself at Le Havre under Humboldt, too._"

Neville said nothing, stroking a thumb over his lips pensively, his brow furrowed. Ford didn't blame him; placing the fate of the Queen of the Northern Sun in the hands of an NCO? Even as combat-experienced as he was, Ford couldn't imagine how incredibly difficult it would be to justify that to the civilian government, much less the King himself.

"You alright with working with mages?" he asked Ford pointedly.

Ford nodded. "Yes, sir!"

"You understand that you and your men may in fact die on this mission? That the Queen's safety takes priority over all else, _including_ your own safety?" Neville pressed.

Ford was silent for a moment before nodding. "That's what you pay me for, sir," he stated evenly. "We'll get the Queen back, or we're not coming back at all."

"Sir, perhaps we should send in all of First Platoon as backup," Ford's lieutenant spoke up then. Neville turned to look at him for a moment before eyeing Ford. "A single section...it's far too risky!"

"Sergeant?" Neville prompted, no doubt gauging how Ford would react at having to share the glory, now that someone else had spoken up.

"With all due respect, sir," he spoke directly to his lieutenant. "The enemy will see a platoon coming no matter how well we try to hide," he stated flatly. "A section can move quicker, remain stealthy, and with the two mages, we should have all the heavy support we need."

"_A fair point,_" Oliver agreed.

"Even so, Chiny needs to be retaken," Neville pointed out to his colleague. "I'm going to authorize the platoon to deploy, but not as backup," he told the lieutenant. "Once the mission is over, you will proceed with retaking the town and reestablishing Belgian sovereignty in the region."

The lieutenant saluted. "Understood, sir!"

Neville nodded and kept a steady eye on both Paratroopers as he tried to see if they were really up to the monumental task he was assigning to them. They must've passed, because he finally nodded and saluted them both, a move emulated by Oliver's holographic form.

"You have until eleven hundred hours to gear up and get ready, then, soldiers. Transport departs on the dot. SIS will be sending a liaison for a more in-depth briefing later on. Good luck and good hunting, Paras," Neville told them. "Dismissed."

* * *

Ford was still mentally kicking himself when he left the main operations building.

Why had he spoken up? His team had no idea he'd just axed their leave, he had no idea how he was going to pull something like this off, and to be honest the pressure to succeed was _not_ insubstantial!

Sure, his reasons were valid back when he'd opened his big mouth, but now that he had a moment to think about it, was he really that sure he could pull it off? Shaking his head, Ford pushed the negativity out of mind. It was done. General Wood had said it best: there's no turning back now.

Instead of reprimanding himself for his decision, Ford made for the Mage barracks, where he'd been informed the two Military Mages assigned to the mission would be getting ready. It didn't take him long — having a single building with multiple people in the same Military Mage uniforms coming in and out all the time kinda gave it away.

It earned him a few odd looks, too, as he walked up to the doors wearing his combat fatigues, clearly denoting him as an outsider to the rather closed-off unit. Ignoring the looks, however, he just pushed open the door and walked right in, immediately scanning the barracks for the two he'd glimpsed pushing past him at the operations building.

"You looking for someone, Sergeant?" one of the mages asked, walking up to him staring down. John wasn't small by any measure, but the mage, on the other hand, was standing rather tall. He wondered if magic had been in any way responsible for that. He knew _he'd_ grown about an inch after his HAVOC procedure. Gods, that'd hurt like a bitch!

Fucked with his coordination, too. Took him two weeks to avoid tripping over his own feet or ramming into anything in sight. Damn near got him a nickname for it, too. Thank heaven for small favours.

Eyeing the mage in front of him more closely, however, Ford noticed the man was wearing a Lieutenant's bar, and instantly came to attention, saluting. Apparently, it _was_ true that all Military Mages graduated with a commissioned rank. Talk about unfair.

"Sir! I'm here on General Longbottom's orders to report to Earthshaker and Meteor!"

The names must've meant something to the mage, because his eyes widened a bit before frowning. Maybe the guy didn't believe him? Tough noogies if so, because it was most certainly true.

"At the back," the mage finally told him, apparently deciding that the better measure of valor was to just let him through. After all, who wanted _the_ Wenshi on their ass for impeding his orders?

Saluting again in thanks, Ford strode over to the back, feeling a little apprehensive. He'd had a good experience with Wood, but was he just an exception amongst the Military Mages? Were they generally just as confrontational as the guy he'd just met? He hoped not, or else this mission could get very ugly, _very_ fast.

He found the pair exactly where the mage had pointed him at. Sitting on opposing bunkbeds — Ford found it odd that officers would even _sleep_ in such barracks — were an older man and a young woman, both of them matching stares and apparently in the midst of a _very_ heated discussion.

"I just don't see _why_ we need backup!" the woman protested. "We can do this without them!"

"Wenshi disagrees," the man responded calmly — making Ford hope to high heaven he was the superior officer here. "And that's the end of that."

"Sir?" Ford prompted then, making his presence known. The young woman with her back to him practically spun around, arm ready to fire off a spell of some kind, when the man reached over and pushed it down.

"Calm down, Meteor," he chastised his partner before nodding in greeting at the Sergeant. "You must be Sergeant Ford."

Ford saluted. "Yes, sir!"

Saluting back, Earthshaker nodded at him again. "I'm Military Mage Captain Earthshaker," he introduced himself. He then motioned to his partner, who glared at Ford like he was some form of intrusive bacteria. "And this pleasant young woman is Military Mage Lieutenant Meteor."

Ford nodded; he was a little disappointed to not know their real names — code names amongst non-friends tended to _not_ promote team bonding — but understood that this was about as good as it was going to get. Knowing that the Mages apparently assigned their code names based on power and skill, however, Ford knew he'd been given access to two very powerful magic users.

Wondering what to do now, Ford opted to fully introduce himself; sure, Earthshaker had managed to guess who he was, but he might as well have called him a chair for all that meant. "Sergeant John Ford, First Platoon, Able Company, First Paras," he said professionally.

Earthshaker broke out a small smile, while Meteor rolled her eyes. "Pleasure, sergeant," Earthshaker said amiably. "However, mission starts at eleven hundred hours, so why are you here?"

Ford wondered about that. After all, the General had only really directed him towards the barracks so he knew where the Military Mages would be. Coming here now had been his own prerogative.

"I figured if we're going to work together, it'd be a good idea to introduce myself, sir," he answered after a moment. "My boys and I have only served directly under General Wood. It seemed like a good idea to get to know the mages who'd be watching our backs this time around."

Dropping Wood's name seemed to have an effect on Meteor, whose eyes widened by a mere fraction. Not enough for most people to catch, but Ford had been around Petrovsky long enough to catch that minimal movement. Earthshaker, however, merely nodded in assent.

"A fine example of initiative, sergeant," the mage complimented him. "What did you have in mind?"

"Well..." Ford dithered. Honestly, he hadn't come in with a solid plan — hell, he hadn't even known what to expect from these two mages. That it'd gone this well so far was frankly sheer dumb luck. "The lads and I just got in for leave, but that's obviously cancelled now."

Earthshaker chuckled, a pleasant difference in reaction to Meteor, who snorted derisively. Either she didn't believe in leave time, or she just didn't think anyone _not_ a mage deserved some. Neither option served to ameliorate his impression of her.

"So how about we get the team together for a late lunch? I heard the local base pub's cook used to work in the private sector; _very_ sought after," Earthshaker offered pleasantly, _definitely_ reinforcing Ford's good impression of the man. "Apparently answered the call for King and country."

Ford grinned. "Well, thank god for His Majesty and the Sun then, eh sir?"

Earthshaker laughed. "Quite so, sergeant. Shall we meet you there?"

Ford nodded. "That would be best, sir," he answered. "I still haven't broken the news to them just yet. They think we're going out for drinks."

Earthshaker nodded sympathetically. "I understand. If it helps, tell them first round's on us," he offered again.

Ford appreciated the gesture. To be quite honest, he dreaded the impromptu briefing with his team that would happen when he got to them at long last. Seventy-three days of combat, and he was flinging them back into the meat grinder without the chance to even go out for a cold one without the fear of an imminent operation of enormous importance hanging over their heads.

Saluting his superior, Ford nodded in thanks. "Thank you, sir. We'll be there as soon as possible."

* * *

The news did not go over well with Delta Section.

"Oh, you've got to be shitting me, sarge!"

Naturally, King was first to complain. However, he was far from the only one unhappy with the situation.

"John, what's going on?" Liam asked him in a whisper after drawing near, so the others wouldn't hear. "We _just_ got leave! The brass can't have pulled it on a whim!"

Ford looked at Liam for a moment then to the rest of the section, stone-faced. "You're right, they didn't," he told them straight. "I volunteered us."

There was silence in their barrack section before King started up again.

"What the fuck for, sarge?! What happened, some officer lost his favourite poodle in some minefield now?" he asked, glaring half-heartedly. "'Cause let me tell you, I ain't wading through no fucking warzone again just to kiss some officer's as—!"

"The Queen's been kidnapped," Ford cut him off flatly.

And just like that, King's complaining died in his throat. Even Petrovsky and Alice, both of whom tended to listen in on these briefings while performing their favourite activities — cleaning his rifle and reading her newest exemplar of Japanese comics, respectively — had stopped dead in their tracks and looked at him in utter surprise.

"HQ needed a team, I said we'd do the rescue op," he continued, sweeping his gaze over his team. "No one else was manning up, so I picked up the ball. Any objections?"

Liam walked over to his own bed and leaned against it with one arm, the other covering his mouth as he tried to process what he'd just been told. The fact that they all had to keep their mouths shut was a no-brainer; even King understood that what had just been revealed to them was top grade classified information. If no one had heard about the kidnapping by now, it was a sure bet that SIS wanted to keep it that way.

Buchanan, his go-to lass for making things die on a large scale, had stopped mid-way through placing down a card in her game of blackjack with her partner, Douglas Bergstein. King, who'd been toweling off his short-cropped blonde hair after a quick shower, had stopped cold, grasping the ends of the towel as it lay across his shoulders. No one said a word.

"Shit, sarge," Liam finally spoke up, grabbing Ford's attention as he pushed himself off and crossed his arms, staring him dead in the eye. "You just get us the craziest damn missions, you know that?"

"Oh, fuck...we're really doing this, aren't we?" King moaned as his head dropped in resignation. He was soon tapped lightly on the head by Alice's comic book.

"Yep, so get over it, you drama queen!" the petite team medic announced with a tone that was entirely _too_ cheerful for what had just gone down. "I need to raid the medical warehouse. And get me some _gorram_ candy!"

"Do it later," Ford told her, pausing the woman's dash for the exit. "We're getting back-up for this mission. Two mages."

Liam whistled. "Two Military Mages?" he asked. "Can't believe there's still a few out there who _aren't_ on the front lines. They as crazy as Batshit Ollie, sir?"

Ford gave a tight smirk. "We're about to find out. They've invited us for lunch and drinks at the pub."

"Free drinks?" piped up King with sudden energy and a bright grin. "Have I mentioned I _love_ mages?"

"You would, you fucking boozehound," Buchanan told him flatly before gathering up the cards on her bunk and nodding at Bergstein. "Come on, Doug; time to meet the walking artillery."

"Right behind you, boss," Bergstein answered with an easy smile. In truth, neither technically outranked the other, but he'd pretty much _allowed_ her to take command of their partnership.

Ford nodded as he saw his section pretty much resign themselves to the fact that this was happening, albeit in a much more positive way than he'd anticipated. He wouldn't have blamed them if they'd been much more vocal about losing their leave time — seventy three days of combat and little else was enough to get even hardened veterans shaken up. That they were willing to so obediently follow him into this op was a testament either to their courage, their faith in him, or pure lack of self-preservation instincts.

"Hey, where's Freddie?" King asked then, referring to Petrovsky. Looking about, the section noticed that the section marksman had, in fact, disappeared quite silently in the midst of their preparations to go meet the mages.

"Knowing him, he's probably already on his way to the pub," Bergstein opined as he finished buttoning up his combat fatigue jacket.

"Scoping the place out for a decent spot," followed up Buchanan as she donned her regulation beret.

"And scaring the shit out of the other guys with that stare of his," rounded off Liam with a grin.

Ford rolled his eyes as he shook his head tolerantly. "Alright, alright, enough chatter; let's go meet our backup."

* * *

Josefina didn't know what to expect when she reached Olympus MOB to meet the team who'd be going on her op, but seeing seven soldiers in fatigues swapping stories with two Military Mages — or rather, one, while the other scowled — in a pub was _not_ it.

"Captain Earthshaker?" she asked as she walked up to the table, clad in a nondescript black women's suit. Opting to forego the cliché, she'd actually left her shades back with her things, deciding that intimidation tactics would probably not work all that well on the sort of people willing to go on such a mission.

The man in the Military Mage uniform looked up at her curiously. "Can I help you?" he asked politely.

She ignored one of the soldier's appreciative whistles and fixed the mage with a stern, professional look. "I'm Agent Smith, SIS," she took out a pocketbook and flipped it open to reveal her credentials. "I'll be your operator for this mission."

She noted that both the senior soldier — a sergeant, of all things — and Earthshaker seemed to take her words rather sceptically. "Common name, that," the mage pointed out casually as he drank from his glass. "Is it your real name, Agent?"

"No," Josefina answered flatly. "But what _is_ real is that I'm going to be the voice in your head for this mission, so you might want to focus on the important bits rather than this sort of thing," she stated crisply.

"Pull up a seat, then, Agent Smith," the sergeant told her with an easy smile that fooled her at no point. He was trying to fish for information by forming a rapport, but that wasn't her job nor did she have any interest in doing so. Her sole focus right now was getting this group ready for the damn mission. "Let us buy you a beer."

"No thanks," she stated simply. "You all need to follow me," she added then. She could've sworn one of the women in the soldier's group cursed at her under her breath, but thought little of it. SIS agents like her and soldiers were rarely an amicable mix. They didn't like the skulking around, and the SIS thought soldiers were far too honorable to do the _really_ dirty work.

It _was_ one of the reasons the SIS had gotten permission to create its own Black Ops response team, after all. Pity they'd been shipped off to Poland for a hands-off mission to destabilize the pro-French elements there.

"Not meaning to sound rude, Agent Smith, but why should we?" Earthshaker asked calmly. He tipped his bottle of beer in the sergeant's direction. "Sergeant Ford here was just telling Meteor and I a rather interesting story about Private Petrovsky and a few cocky French snipers in Caen, and _you_ don't outrank...well...any of us."

Josefina closed her eyes, tightened her fists, and counted to ten in her head. If she'd still been an active field operative, she could've just written them off and gone to do the mission herself. Maybe grab a few other spies as backup whom she _knew_ would listen to her every word as though it were gospel.

But unfortunately, she wasn't a field agent anymore. Xeno had seen to that.

Fortunately, however, she did have a way to get these berks to hear her out. "Priority override, Captain," she stated curtly as she drew out the official notice and laid it on the table. "As far as the real world is concerned, you're right. I don't outrank you. But as far as this mission goes? I'm _god_ to you people."

Earthshaker never even touched the paper. No doubt he already knew she'd had such a thing and wanted to see if she'd use it to coerce him and Ford's team to obey. Instead, he put his hand on it and slid it back towards Josefina. "Understood, Agent Smith," he acquiesced sternly. "May we at least know where we're going?"

"Briefing, then armory," Josefina stated simply. "General Longbottom may have told you the general gist of it, but I'm here to give up the details. Then, SIS wants you all equipped with _everything_ you need to get this mission done."

Ford and his team exchanged looks while Meteor and Earthshaker shrugged. Military Mages didn't typically carry..._anything_ that wasn't their uniform, their vests, and a sidearm. With their abilities, the mages could just...conjure up most of what they needed.

Josefina nodded to the sergeant. "You'll be glad, sergeant; we brought all the newest toys." she informed the group before turning and leading the way out.

Left to their own devices, Ford and Earthshaker exchanged looks before Ford shrugged and rose from his seat. "Guess we'll have to finish this some other time, sir," he told the mage as his team and Meteor got to their feet.

"Guess so, sergeant," the mage agreed before getting to his feet and following the sergeant and his team out of the mess hall and back into the courtyard.

"She's god?" Josefina heard one of them mutter as they filed out after her. "If that's so, then fuckin' _amen_, mate!" She rolled her eyes at the juvenile remark.

As always, the scene was one of bustling activity as Olympus Base continued its tireless work in coordinating not only the VANGUARD offensive, but also the logistical necessities of the Austrian front, as there were no set lines of supply on that end until the Austrian and Luxembourgian forces managed to link up.

Both Ford and Earthshaker had to salute or respond to salutes more than once as they followed the secretive SIS agent to the armory — which sort of surprised both of them, since they'd both probably expected her to take over the command building for this operation. She'd have loved to, but her priority override did have its limits, and while the rescue of the Queen was top priority, there _was_ a war going on still.

Still, she'd been reliably informed by both the local SIS office and Wenshi himself that the armory had a side room for such emergency briefings ready to go. Leading them into said room, she stood at the front while she waited for the rescue team to settle into a proper school circle in front of her.

Without prompting, she then strode to a port near her and slipped in a chip, followed by a swipe of her ID. In a bright flash of light, the overhead projector lit up and splattered an image of the village of Chiny on the wall behind her.

"Sergeant Ford and Captain Earthshaker here should both be aware of this by now," she started, deciding to go straight to business. "But this is the village of Chiny, where we are ninety-nine point seven percent sure that the DGSE is holding the Queen hostage."

She clicked a remote in her hand, and the image zoomed in on the village, the scale marker indicating to anyone capable of basic math that it represented a square mile of the village. "This is the region we've estimated the Queen to be, based on her tracker chip and our human intel. Unfortunately, we're unable at the moment to precisely pinpoint her location, but then that's what you're here for."

Another click, and the image switched to what looked like an ugly as hell UAV drone. "This, I think you'll recognize, is the Watchkeeper WK450," she droned on, sympathizing with the soldiers as they grimaced at the bastardized look the drone wore badly. "Unfortunately, with the bombings around the world came a dense magical field which has resulted in all our drones being grounded, due in part to the low amount of shielding any individual unit can hold before being bogged down and made unserviceable. This particular model, however, has been shielded enough to last for one hour of flight time," she told them.

"So we're getting air support?" asked Ford, leaning forward and looking _very_ interested.

"No," Josefina cut down those hopes quickly. "Every last weapon had to be taken off for the bloody thing to even lift off after we finished reinforcing its armor, so it's basically little more than a giant flying camera at this point," she informed the group. "What it _can_ do, however, is tell us where the Queen is."

"So launch it now and we'll know," King mouthed off. "Why wait around and tell us all of this?"

Ford smacked him upside the head. "Because they might move the Queen, you berk," he chastised his subordinate.

Josefina nodded in agreement. "Exactly," she said, frowning at the entire team. "That's why the drone will be dispatched from here, in Notre-Dame," she zoomed out the photograph of the area to point at a town north of Chiny. "But only after we know you've managed to reach the city borders. Once we've got a positive reading, you'll need to move quickly and rescue Her Majesty before the DGSE has a chance to escape."

She nodded at Earthshaker and Meteor now. "And that's where you come in," she informed the two mages. "We already know the DGSE have portkeys; but we don't know how _many_, or if they have mage support of their own. Either way, we're providing you with the necessary equipment to set up an Anti-Apparation and Anti-Portkey ward around the target area."

She barely processed the two mages' nods before she swept Ford's team with her gaze. "Unfortunately, that means no emergency MEDEVAC. Once that ward's in place, your emergency recall portkeys will be rendered useless until they're brought back down."

Ford nodded silently and grimly. He'd had a feeling ever since she mentioned the wards. All the more pressure not to get hit, then. Bloody hell, why couldn't he just have a normal goddamn leave?

"SIS has opted not to give you strict orders regarding infiltration, because the truth is we're about as much at a loss on this as you are," she admitted reluctantly. "Therefore, the actual infiltration procedure will be at your CO's discretion — for the record, that's Captain Earthshaker," she reminded Ford's team pointedly, ignoring the rolled eyes and glares. "However, our current local intel suggests that the southern approach is the one with the lightest guard, presumably due to its easy access to the dense woods along the French border."

"Makes for a great escape route," Earthshaker noted while nodding in agreement.

"Exactly; but at the same time, we're also aware that the northern bridge approach hasn't been destroyed, so it's possible that they intend to escape into the dense woods of Chiny. Even if we could comb the woods at our leisure, however, they'd probably manage to escape the wards and portkey out long before we get to them," she pointed out before zooming in on a crossroads to the north-west of the village. "This entry point is also possible, but an explosion there recently, captured by a fly-by, seems to indicate some form of booby-trapping; no doubt in an attempt to forestall any cross-forest assault on the village."

"Bloody hell," she heard one of the men — McNamara, if she wasn't wrong — swear. "They've got the place locked down tight."

"Once you've identified and rescued the Queen," she continued on, sweeping aside McNamara's concern — mostly because she shared the very same apprehension. "You will need to radio in confirmation of the rescue. Air support will be on station awaiting your call and will arrive wherever you are in five minutes."

She nodded then to one of the female soldiers — Wright, she thought — who raised her hand. "What's the enemy count at?" she asked simply.

"Unknown," Josefina admitted. "Unfortunately, neither the Belgian authorities nor the SIS were aware of Chiny's fall until after the incident in Liverpool. We're estimating no less than four Black Ops teams present, plus an indeterminate amount of DGSE agents — all of which are likely to be armed. Mage support, if any, is unknown. If you can, SIS would _love_ to take off your hands any magic users you may come across, but keeping them alive is _not_ a priority."

A round of nods told her she was still being paid close attention to, prompting her to turn off the projector and turning on the lights once more. "If that's all clear, please proceed to the armory next door. Captain, Sergeant, I'll be passing on maps of the region for your perusal; I'll be expecting a plan before dust-off, which will be at ten-thirty local time sharp."

"Where are we being inserted?" Ford asked, noting she hadn't mentioned an airborne insertion.

Josefina gave him a grim smile. "Wherever you need us to, sergeant," she told him plainly.

* * *

John was alone now.

It was nearing ten o'clock the same evening, and as per his usual routine, he'd opted to seclude himself from his team to psych himself up.

Everyone had their own thing, too. Bergstein and Buchanan were no doubt cleaning house playing cards with other units. King was probably in the bar, trying to score a last-minute hook-up before the mission (and most likely failing). Liam was cleaning his weapons and checking up on everyone's packs to make sure the team had everything they needed, Wright was probably in her bunk, reading her comics (she'd already raided the medical warehouse hours ago), and he had no idea _what_ the two mages were doing.

Petrovsky...no one had any real idea _what_ he did during pre-op time, but it seemed to work for him, so as long as Ford didn't hear about Petrovsky getting implicated in something criminal, he didn't care.

For his own part, however, Ford liked solitude before operations. It gave him a moment to reflect on everything, to remind himself that what he did was lamentably necessary, and that lesser men would fuck up where he wouldn't.

He pawed at his service tags, feeling comfort in the feeling of steel amongst his fingers. In relief, he could feel the very service number he'd long since memorized — mostly for the purposes of resisting interrogation.

"November Sierra," he mumbled under his breath. "Alpha Zero-Zero-One. One-One-Two-One. Juliet Foxtrot-One-One-Seven."

It made him sound so disposable. So...mathematically inconsequential. Yet, for some reason, every time he recited it he felt a well of courage rise up in him. Defiance, perhaps — defiance towards that very idea that he was just some statistic on some number-puncher's spreadsheet.

He heard bells ringing in the distance — church bells, to be precise. Ten o'clock.

He looked up at the sky in a futile attempt at seeing the stars. None in sight — not at all strange, given the cloud cover they'd been banking on, and the fact that the city's lights obscured the night sky anyway.

He chuckled. Ironically, the one moment where he'd seen the most stars in his life was in Caen. With all of the city's electricity wiped out, the night sky had become a wonderful tapestry of shining stars. Perhaps one of the only good things to have come out of this blackout.

He looked back down at the sights in front of him, and noted with grim anticipation that the Westland Lynxes that would be taking his men to their insertion point were already being checked and prepped for takeoff by their crews.

Nine soldiers, going up against goodness knew how many enemy troops. Honestly, Ford sometimes had to wonder if he was perhaps just looking for a reason to die. Whether or not that was true was irrelevant to him, however, as whatever his fate was he'd sworn to get as many of his men back home in one piece as possible.

Idly, he put the service tags back under the safety of his armor and stood up, opting to perform last-minute checks on his gear.

At the armory, Agent Smith hadn't skimped out on her promise to deliver the finest toys the Northern Sun's military R&D facilities had pumped out. Chief amongst them was the next generation of the very field armor he'd worn during Operation Cobra, this time enhanced by experimental procedures that, as far as he understood it, could enhance the durability and agility of the armor. However, that paled in comparison to its _true_ breakthrough.

Magical enhancement.

While he knew the original armor had been enchanted to be less heavy on the troops — something he was eternally grateful for, considering the rather long jog the Caen operation had been — the new version was made of an amalgamation of Goblin-wrought steel, leaving the magic out of the hardness and lightness. Instead, the eggheads had decided to try and make the suit more versatile by providing runic enchantments. His, for instance, had an enchantment that rendered it virtually invulnerable.

The tradeoff being that it only worked for fifteen seconds once activated.

Even so, he couldn't wait to try it out — and indeed, he would be the _first_ and _only_ person to have currently tried it out, if he did. Apparently, in their zeal to equip the troopers for the mission, the SIS had also opted to use them as guinea pigs. Most of his troopers had acquired newer versions of their current equipment — hell, Buchanan and Bergstein, the HMG team, had been given control an FN Minimi LMG that had been given runic enchantments to make it effectively weightless. Both troopers had been over the moon at the news, with Bergstein making the joke that at least now Buchanan's height wouldn't decrease due to the weight of the damn thing. She'd obligingly punched him in the arm.

"You too, huh?"

Ford looked up and saw Earthshaker coming up to him. He would've stood up and saluted, but the officer just waved him down and took a seat beside him. So much for solitude.

"I like being alone before an op," Ford told him before digging out a carton of cigarettes and offering one to the mage. The man refused, so he just shrugged and took one for himself, lighting it up with a match scratched against his thigh armor.

"Didn't the Surgeon General say something about cigarettes being bad for your health?" Earthshaker asked bemusedly.

Ford shrugged. "They also say going into combat's likely to get you killed, but we do it anyway," he pointed out. "Helps keep my nerves down."

The two shared a companionable silence then, simply watching the helicopter crews as they continued preparing their vehicles for the short hop to Florenville, from where they'd have to commandeer ground vehicles to go up into Chiny via the southern entrance.

"Why Ura?" Earthshaker asked suddenly, prompting Ford to glance at his CO.

"Sir?"

"Ura. Your section keeps using it all the time, but I _know_ that's the Russian's cry," Earthshaker explained. "My partner...sorry, _former_ partner was Russian. She used it all the time, too."

Ford chuckled, taking out his cigarette to blow out smoke, reminiscing. "That's Petrovsky's fault. He's half-Ukrainian and his dad served in the Soviet forces before defecting. First day on the job, he called out Ura instead of the normal Hoorah. It stuck."

Earthshaker looked disappointed at his story. "Really? That's it?" he asked, somewhat surprised. Obviously he'd been expecting some rather amazing story to justify why the Northern Paras were using a Russian war cry instead of...well..._anything_ else.

Ford shrugged. "The greatest things usually have a simple explanation, sir," he stated wisely.

A crackle in their ears got both soldiers' attention, and almost simultaneously they reached for their ear buds.

"_This is Agent Smith. Sergeant, Captain, I read you both near the helipad already. Good. Everything set?_" asked the familiar female voice of their SIS liaison and overseer.

Ford glanced at Earthshaker and shrugged, telling the man silently to take the call.

"This is Earthshaker; everything's set. We're just waiting on the team," the Captain reported.

"_Understood; I'll send word to round them up._"

Ford smiled to himself before butting in. "No need, ma'am," he assured her as he looked towards the other end of the helipads. Six familiar black suits of battlefield armor were walking towards him, accompanied by one woman in Military Mage blues. "They're already here."

There was a pause before Agent Smith spoke up again. "_Fifteen minutes early._" she noted. "_I may just end up liking you lot after all._"

"We aim to please," Ford said with a chuckle before getting to his feet, followed soon by Earthshaker. He nodded at his men, all of them opting to keep their helmets in hand for now. Once on, the only distinguishing feature between any of them would be the numerals on their outer shoulder armor. His was Seven.

"Everything ready?" he asked Liam, who nodded back, his usually easy going smile replaced by a tight, firm line.

"Everything's good to go, Sarge," his friend replied formally. "Triple checked every pack myself."

Ford nodded before eyeing Alice. "You packing enough medical supplies, Doc?" he asked her — more of a formality than a real concern, but he found it helped morale if the whole section knew that the medic was indeed packing enough supplies to set up a field hospital...or close to it.

"Raided the warehouse myself, Sarge." Alice answered.

"Buchanan, Bergstein?" he asked the LMG pair. The two soldiers stayed at attention.

"All set to cut down some Frog fucks, Sarge!" Buchanan answered for the both of them, with Bergstein nodding in agreement.

"Petrovsky?"

The silent marksman merely nodded and saluted. Ford knew to take that as an all-set.

"King?" Ford asked the junior-most of the section. King merely closed his eyes, breathed out, and then nodded firmly.

"Green and very mean, Sarge," he stated simply.

Nodding at his troops, Ford put in a hand, prompting all of them to follow suit and clasping their hands on top of each other's. "Remember," he told them, making slow and deliberate eye contact with each one. "This isn't about the Queen. It's not even about the Northern Sun. This is about rescuing a little girl's _mum_ and bringing her home. This is about sucker punching those DGSE assholes the same way they sucker punched us."

A small chorus of Ura answered him. "We are Paras, troopers," he continued. "First into the field, first into combat. We're going to make those Frenchie fucks wish they'd _never_ made HQ call on _us_! Ura?"

"Ura!"

Ford paused then, looking at the faces of each of his six section-mates. He already knew them each by memory to the smallest detail, but even so committed the image before him to his mind, just in case. "Paras lead on three. One, two...three!"

"Paras lead the way!" they shouted as they pumped the stack of hands down and then flung their hands up, breaking the scrimmage circle. Looking to his side, Ford paused in putting on his helmet to see Earthshaker nodding at him with a smile. Even Meteor seemed a little torn between smiling and continuing her scowling at the non-mages.

Looking down at the interior of his cushioned, ballistic-hardened helmet, he felt...dread? Anxiety? All of that, he supposed. But no matter; he pushed those feelings as far down as he could, took a deep breath, and put on his helmet, allowing his field of vision to be covered by the polarized visor for a moment before the small computer systems booted up and a primitive HUD flared to life, showing the names of each person in his mission team — including the two mages. A circle next to each name indicated by way of colour changes who was speaking, or if there was a request for a private com channel.

In all, a lot of areas for improvement, but since it kept his head fairly decently protected from an instant death, he wasn't complaining.

Almost immediately, he turned his gaze on his team and saw them all donning the black helmets as well. Opening the team com channel, he nodded at all of them. "Alright; here's the divvy. Liam, you take King and Petrovsky on the second chopper. I'll take the rest. Captain, how do you want to divide up your forces?"

Earthshaker eyed the choppers warily for a moment before shaking his head. "We'll be meeting you there, Sergeant. We're going to Apparate to the insertion site."

"_Afraid not, Captain; no telling if the DGSE have mage support, remember? They could be monitoring the area for magic_," Agent Smith's dulcet tones reminded everyone on the comm channel. Ford was a bit surprised — he hadn't been aware that she had access to these channels. Maybe she'd hacked into every frequency the radios worked on, just in case?

Earthshaker grimaced before conceding to the fact that he'd have to ride on one of the machines. "I'll take the second helicopter; just in case. Meteor rides with you, Sergeant."

Ford nodded before bringing up one hand and making his index finger trace a circle in the air. "Alright, Paras; you've got your orders! Wheels up in two minutes! Let's go!" he barked at them.

Without needing further prompting, the all-black-clad section moved to their assigned helicopters, grunting in acknowledgement at the helicopter crews as they were greeted. Ford watched as Earthshaker led roughly half of his team to the other chopper and strapped himself in tightly, prompting the grizzled sergeant to chuckle — after making sure his comms here _not_ transmitting. Fear of flying — who'd have guessed it?

He waited until everyone was on board before stepping onto his chopper, opting to take a seat at the edge, so he could have a better view of the surrounding area once they were in the air. He felt someone tap him on the shoulder and looked to his left, nodding as the crewman at the HMG gave him a thumbs up.

"_Alright, gentlemen,_" Agent Smith announced over the comm. "_Everything's set on our end. Remember: for the purpose of this mission, you are hereinafter Task Force Guardian. Captain Earthshaker is Guardian Lead, Lieutenant Meteor is Guardian Two, and so forth._"

Ford nodded to himself as he opened his comm line. "Understood," he replied simply, along with the chorus of similar responses from the rest of the team.

"_Alright then. Good luck, troopers._"

Ford felt the helicopter shift as its rotors began to generate enough lift to get them off the ground. He saw the ground begin to move away from him and smiled in his helmet. "We're Paras, ma'am," he stated, knowingly leaving the comm channel open for the whole team. "We make our own luck."

* * *

_**Post-AN: **So Harry shows up again...for a cameo, basically. I know, I know, this is HP fanfiction, so why is he in such a sidelined role? Because he's the King, and until circumstances dictate otherwise, he has to remain behind. Fortunately for him, circumstances **have** just changed. Still, he'll be useless until after he recovers._

_Also, why Ford? Because I enjoy writing the boots on the ground scenes, and having high-ranking mages like Oliver or Neville spearhead the op personally would've been jarring, especially since they do have a war to run. In any case, the next chapter will wrap up this mini-arc, and the French conflict will be reaching the beginning of the end, basically. After all, there's bound to be consequences beyond simple militaristic backlash from the kidnapping event!_

_Cheers,_

_Marquis Black_


	28. Chapter XXIII: Operation GUARDIAN

_**AN: **Okay, I need to get a few things out of the way. It's been brought to my attention, quite rightly, that my OCs have taken up a lot of screentime recently. I know this - this is all part of the plan to get Harry back on the field. Without a catalyst sufficiently urgent to bring the King back to the battlefield and to the forefront of the war, there would be no rational way by which he could get away with it. And no, "I'm the King!" is not an acceptable reason._

_In other news, the poll is now closed! Flag G is now both the cover art to this story, and the flag of the Northern Sun! Thanks to all for participating!_

_In any case, another huge thanks to Ray for helping me with writing this chapter! And to all of you, naturally, who read this! :D_

_Cheers,_

_MB_

* * *

_**Florenville**__**, Belgium, April 16, 2017 (D-Day +75)...**_

"_We'll be in position in five mikes, Guardian! Get ready for insertion!_"

Ford nodded to himself as the pilot's transmission, uplinked to his helmet-integrated radio, sounded off the last leg of their trip.

Keying in the team's frequencies, Ford steeled himself for the next few words. "Alright, lads, pucker up! Insertion in five!" he barked. Six clicks answered him in acquiescence before the two mages spoke up in turn.

"_Copy that, sergeant_," Earthshaker acknowledged.

"_Copy_," Meteor followed up, a little curtly. Goodness, wasn't it a requisite of some kind for all military mages _not_ to have a stick up their ass?

Ford watched as the ground seemed to come closer — in the distance, he could see the dim lights of Chiny, as though nothing was wrong at all with the small town. The DGSE had apparently opted not to raise too many questions — smart of them. If the town had appeared dead to the world, perhaps the Northern army would've noticed sooner.

The ground was coming up towards them slowly as the helicopters began their descent right on the south side of Florenville. He and Earthshaker had agreed that having the helicopters land anywhere else could tip off the Chiny garrison, whereas by landing south of Florenville afforded them the cover of the village's skyline.

"_Reaching position in three...two...one..._"

Ford breathed in deep before nodding to himself. "Here we go, Guardian!" he ordered his team before standing up in the chopper, letting loose the rappel rope, snapping on his harness, and then sliding down the 30 foot rope to the ground. Hitting ground, he quickly unshackled himself from the rope and broke into a sprint and, once clear of the dust cloud underneath the choppers, took a knee as he swept the area for enemy contacts. Even though Florenville had been guaranteed to be under Belgian control, he wasn't taking any chances.

The sound of boots hitting grass nearby told him his men had similarly cleared their helicopters, and he knew from experience working with them that they'd also taken precautions against sudden ambushes.

"_West_ _Clear!_" he heard Liam announce from the other side of the LZ.

"_North_ _Clear!_" sounded off King and Buchanan, almost at the same time.

"_South Clear!_" finished off Wright, with Petrovsky's comm indicator flashing once in agreement. Jesus, give the man a way to stop talking even more and Ford was certain he'd end up mute!

"All clear!" he joined in on the chorus. "Captain, we are all clear."

Earthshaker must've been taken aback by the soldiers' tactics, because it took him a moment to gather himself and respond. Or, more likely, he was still trying to overcome the nausea he'd been audibly feeling throughout the ride. "_Copy that, Sergeant._" Earthshaker stated as firmly as he could muster himself to do so."_Proceed with the plan._"

Ford nodded once before making his indicator blink on each of his team's HUD. Almost all at once, they turned to look at him. Pointing at King and Bergstein, he motioned towards the village. "King, Bergstein; get us some civvie vehicles. The rest of you, on me; we're going to set up a checkpoint at the crossroads with Fache Sainte Ann where the highway leads to Chiny," he ordered.

He looked back at the approaching mages and nodded. "Sir, if you prefer, you can go with King and Bergstein and meet us later with the cars," he offered.

Earthshaker seemed to ponder this for a moment before nodding to Meteor. "Meteor, you go with King and Bergstein to secure the cars," he ordered, a simple glare cutting off any protests from the young woman. He then looked to Ford and nodded. "I'm with you, sergeant. Let's go make sure nothing untoward's waiting for us."

Ford nodded, allowing a smile to bloom behind the polarized glass of his visor, secure in the knowledge no one would see it. "Right you are, sir," he replied before looking to his detachment and nodding. "Alright, Paras, move out! Put a spring in that step, soldiers! Buchanan, you're on point!"

"_Ura!_" his comm resounded with his subordinates' responses.

With Buchanan at the head of the unit, the remaining four soldiers of his team, plus Earthshaker and himself, broke into a run as they moved into the town proper, their weapons still very much ready to fire as they checked their corners and any windows they caught sight of. Just because the town had been _declared_ friendly by the SIS and Army Recon didn't mean it still was, after all.

"_Clear_," Buchanan informed the team as she peered around a corner, her assault rifle sweeping the area just in case.

Ford nodded, stepped up to her, patted her on the shoulder, then rounded the corner while breaking into a sprint across the open plaza towards a line of cars parked on the other side of the street. Fortunately, it seemed the Army had come through in evacuating the area, otherwise the locals would've have had a good look at a team of all-black-clad troopers in assault armor skittering from here to there in their city.

Can you _say_ panic attack?

This time, it was his turn to sweep the area. To his relief, nothing caught his eye, except for the utter silence in the town. Eerie how a bustling town could seem so frightening when it was devoid of life. Turning to face the corner he'd just emerged from, he made a short wave to Buchanan to catch her attention, then motioned for her to move up to him. In short order, the rest of his team was on him, with Earthshaker bringing up the rear.

"Looks all clear, sir," Ford reported dutifully.

"_Can you __**say**__ ghost town?_" muttered Wright over the comm. "_I keep waiting for the gorram zombies to pop out..._"

"_That's it, Doc, you're cut off_," Buchanan snarked. "_No more fucking zombie comics. The fuck do you see in those, anyway? Crazy ass geek._"

"Stow it, you two," Ford snapped before turning his attention back to Earthshaker. "Sir, orders?"

Earthshaker seemed bemused by the team antics, but knew they really were running on a clock right now. "Keep moving, sergeant. We'll meet Meteor and your boys at the crossroads with Fache Saint Anne."

Ford nodded before tapping Petrovsky on the shoulder and pointing him towards the corner opposite the plaza. "Corner. Go."

Petrovsky's comm icon blinked once in acknowledgement before the marksman set off in a run towards the designated location. Sliding to a halt exactly where Ford had pointed him, Ford watched as Petrovsky peered around the corner, swept the area with his rifle, then blinked his icon once more.

"All clear," Ford informed the group. "Buchanan, you go first. Captain, you next. Wright, you follow the Captain; I've got rear."

"_Yes, sir!_" his two female subordinates acknowledged, while Earthshaker nodded in agreement.

Ford nodded and made a chopping motion towards Petrovsky. "Alright. Go, go, go!" he hissed at them — rather out of habit, considering no one not keyed into their comm frequency could hear them.

Exactly as he'd suggested, the group filed out towards Petrovsky, taking great pains not to appear bunched up in case the enemy was just laying in wait for a good opportunity to kill a lot of Paras in one go. Hopefully, even in that situation, the armor would hold out long enough to get to cover, but Ford knew better than to tempt fate.

Arriving last, Ford kept his breathing steady as they neared the rendezvous spot. Eyeing the road ahead, he knew that behind the block they were using as cover there was a forest they could probably easily cut through, but Ford dismissed the idea. The point of this little excursion was to clear the road to the crossroads, to make sure that the DGSE hadn't moved in an left a nasty surprise this way.

Pointing to Buchanan and Petrovsky, he pointed them to the other side of the road. "You two, clear that sidewalk and cover our nine," he ordered before motioning down his own sidewalk. "We'll cover your three."

Buchanan and Petrovsky nodded before sprinting to the other side of the road, taking cover in the garage drives and alleyways between houses. So separated, the team moved up the road and around the curve as they moved towards the RV point. Ford noted that many a house had their doors still swaying open, the littered yards indicative of a population hastily evacuated.

He felt a little resistance at his feet and looked down, having barely realized that he'd just kicked a teddy bear. Kneeling down — noting absently that his team had stopped moving as he did so — he picked it up, smiling forlornly behind his visor. It was well cared for. Whatever child had left this behind was no doubt missing it terribly.

"_Got something, sarge?_" Wright asked him as she looked back to see what the holdup was. Ford snapped out of his reverie and put the teddy bear back in the closest yard from where he'd found it before shaking his head.

"Negative. Keep moving," he stated simply as he raised his weapon once more, sweeping the area with his eyes and barrel in case some DGSE asshole popped out of nowhere.

Earthshaker, who'd continued being in front of Wright but behind Buchanan, chose that moment to speak up. "_Looks like the crossroads up ahead,_" he spoke in a whisper. "_Meteor and the others should be getting here soon._"

Calling up King's frequency, Ford decided to make sure that was so. "King, status."

"_On our way, sarge. Had a bit of trouble with one of the cars, but nothing I couldn't handle_," the private's voice reassured him. "_What's the road like? Any trouble?_"

"Negative, just get here quick," Ford ordered before switching back to the main channel. "They're one the way, ETA five mikes," he confirmed.

"_Guardian, this is Castle,_" they heard Agent Smith's voice over the radio a few minutes later. "_You're on the clock, boys; what's your status?_"

Ford exchanged glances with Earthshaker, who nodded back in an apparent decision to let Ford take point on this. It surprised the sergeant a little, but he nodded back in respectful gratitude. "This is Guardian Seven," he spoke into his comm. "We are rendezvousing with transportation to the target area in...two mikes." he informed her after a quick inspection at the mission clock.

"_Understood, Guardian Seven_," Smith replied, her voice betraying surprisingly little emotion. To Ford, that spoke volumes of the woman. Sure, he'd seen her and spoken to her back in Brussels, but that hadn't been in the middle of an operation. It was easy to fake confidence outside a high-stress situation, but almost impossible to do so convincingly in the middle of an op. "_Bear in mind, the drone will need fifteen minutes to get to Chiny once you give the order, so take that into account._"

Ford nodded. "Understood," he confirmed.

"_Head's up, Sarge!_" he then heard King's voice announce rather cockily. "_Transportation is here!_"

Heralded by the sound of two engines revving up rather loudly — making Ford fear that King had indulged himself in picking out the most gaudy and yet "awesome" cars he could get his hands on — the detachment at the crossroads watched as two pairs of headlights appeared at the curve and came towards them.

Fortunately for Ford's blood pressure, however, King had understood the need for discretion. Two sedans, black and silver respectively with tinted windows, pulled up to the team, King's grinning face bared to the world as his helmet sat on the passenger's front seat.

"Nice wheels, eh, Sarge?" the youngest member of Guardian asked cheekily.

"Any trouble?" Ford asked simply after taking off his own helmet.

King shrugged as the team gravitated towards one car or the other. "Fuck all, sarge," King said with an easy grin as he watched his sergeant take the passenger's seat. "These folk don't seem to like modern cars much. This one's a '94, and the one Bear's got is a '92."

"_Fuck me_, King, it smells like something _died_ back here!" Buchanan complained loudly as she settled into the back alongside Petrovsky. "...and oh _god damnit_, there's a used condom!"

Ford glanced at King via peripheral vision for a moment before making sure the comms were, in fact, quite off. The last thing Earthshaker and Meteor needed to hear was Buchanan's penchant for swearing like a drunken sailor. Even so, he couldn't help but agree with Buchanan — the aroma of the car was downright atrocious. Not to mention the fact that it looked like some bum had been living out of it.

"King...where _did_ you find these cars?" Ford asked somewhat hesitantly as he noticed something pink on the floor by his armored boots.

Ford _really_ hoped he hadn't heard the words "sex shop parking lot" coming out of King's mouth. He _really_ hoped he'd just misheard the mumbling.

Unfortunately, Buchanan's promise of a beating for the idiotic idea of hijacking cars in an adult/sex shop's parking lot pretty much confirmed his fears.

Turning the comms back online, Ford sighed heavily before transmitting. "Alright, Guardian...advise you all stay _away_ from the unknown splotches and other paraphernalia you're bound to find in these vehicles," he told the group. "Looks like King's urges got us into a sticky situation...again."

There was a brief pause before he heard Liam and the others in the other car burst out laughing, sans the humourless Meteor and Earthshaker, who soon appeared at his window looking rather bemused.

"All set, sergeant?" the mage asked as he leaned over. Ford nodded at the mage.

"Yes, sir. I recommend you ride with us, sir. Having both officers in one car isn't the best of ideas," he suggested.

Earthshaker eyed the back of the car, where Buchanan was still swearing at King and Petrovsky was in what appeared to either be a state of complete zen or shock. He hesitated for a moment, as the possibility of coming into contact with unwanted fluids was very high in _both_ vehicles, before reluctantly nodding.

"Very well, sergeant," he conceded before reaching up to his ear bud. "Meteor, I'll be in the first car. Keep them safe."

He must've not gotten the answer he wanted, because the mage frowned for a bit before climbing into the car with Ford's team. Over the comm's private channel reserved for the enlisted amongst the task force, Ford could also hear Liam call the female mage a bitch...albeit very discretely.

Whatever the case, however, Ford had no time for it. All this tension breaking was good, but they also had to face the reality of the task before them. They were about to attempt to infiltrate an enemy-controlled town and rescue the Queen from an indeterminate amount of enemy forces. They couldn't be letting their guards down.

Looking to King, he saw the youngster apparently coming to the same realization as the jovial young man's face hardened and his grip tightened. Nodding at his subordinate, Ford gave the order. "Let's ride, King."

"You got it, sarge. Chiny or bust, people!" he called out before flooring — okay, not quite _flooring_ — the pedal.

* * *

_**VANGUARD Main Operating Base 'Olympus,' Belgium...**_

"Task Force Guardian is on its way to Chiny, ma'am."

Josefina nodded somberly as she watched the blips on the map start moving in a northerly direction. Anxiety was running throughout every inch of her body; she'd begun nibbling at the tip of her thumbnail, tapping her foot, and rhythmically tapping her fingers on her opposing bicep.

She couldn't help it. For all her bluster and confidence, this was her first _real_ op as an overseer, and it wasn't one to be taken lightly. While she still felt some substantial degree of jealousy towards the Queen for having so much of Harry's affection, she respected the woman a great deal more, and had practically melted at the sight of their daughter Katerina, who was a bundle of energy and joy by herself.

Most importantly, she knew Harry valued Elicia above all else — his life, his job, even his country and friends. She had no doubts that if he'd had a say in it, Harry would've torched most of Liverpool if it meant bringing her back to his side.

So now? Now she wanted to honour that feeling and make him happy by doing just that — bringing her back. But most importantly, _she_ had to see it through. Even if the sergeant and Earthshaker led the op on the ground, even though Xeno barred her from taking to the field again, a not-insubstantial part of her demanded that _she_ take command of the op and ensure its success, even if it had to be in an administrative role.

"Prep the bird," she ordered, still standing ramrod straight as she observed the digitally rendered map track the team's movements. "I want that thing in the air the _moment_ they call it in, understood?" she asked crisply.

"Yes, ma'am," acknowledged one of her analysts. The man quickly picked up the phone and called it in, leaving Josefina to stare at all the information before her once again.

She didn't like this op. There were too many unknowns for it to make any sort of sense. Why had Chiny fallen so quietly? A cross-border offensive _should've_ been picked up on the satellite surveillance the moment it happened. Why didn't they know how many troops were awaiting the single squad-strength team? Did they even _know_ there was a raid incoming? Why Chiny, of all places? Why not some dark, dank hole in the middle of nowhere's-ville, France?

Her training and experience had her instinctual alarms all firing off. She didn't doubt the intel they'd gathered on the Queen's rough location, but she _did_ doubt the magnitude of the operation they were facing. There was no way this was just some run-of-the-mill assassination attempt. It smacked of greater plans.

"Tell the Air Force I need a surveillance plane over Chiny on the double," she ordered one of her crew of analysts and technicians. "I want the entire area reconnoitred as soon as possible."

"Ma'am, the Air Force has already conducted recon over the area," one of her analysts protested. "Is that really neces—"

"Do it," she interrupted the man curtly, still rubbing her fingers anxiously. "Something's off about this town, and I want to know what that is before Captain Earthshaker and Task Force Guardian get in too deep."

She considered calling up the team to caution them, but almost immediately dismissed the thought. She had no proof whatsoever that her instinctual fears were real, and unlike her field missions, she wasn't exactly in a position to validate those fears with direct surveillance. Besides, Earthshaker wasn't by any means reckless, and the sergeant had a reputation of valuing his team's lives. She was sure neither would go unnecessarily overboard.

* * *

_**Outskirts of Chiny, Belgium...**_

"Hold up, sentries."

Ford's car slowed its pace as Petrovsky's remarkable discerning skills — even in the dark — forewarned them of the upcoming obstacle. Not unforeseen, but still annoying.

Ford quickly tapped on his comm unit. "Head's up, Guardian, sentries at twelve o'clock," he relayed to the second car before tapping off the device and looking to King. "How tinted would you say the windows are?"

King shrugged. "It's a sex car, sarge," King answered with a cheeky smirk. "I'd say about the same as His Majesty's car."

Ford nodded. "Good enough. Buchanan. Petrovsky," he addressed his two soldiers in the back. "Pistols out. Silencers. King and I will take first shots. You get out and finish the job."

He looked right at Earthshaker then. "That alright with you, sir?" he then asked, somewhat unnecessarily. Mage though he was, Earthshaker knew he had little understanding of the way grunts like Ford and his team worked in these sorts of special circumstances. The most stealthy Military Mages in the service, after all, tended to be recruited into SIS. There was no real need for Military Mages to be stealthy in the military proper, after all, since they were usually deployed to areas that needed wholesale demolition.

Earthshaker thus nodded firmly. "Do it, sergeant."

Ford nodded back before tapping up his comm again. "Get ready in case the shite hits the fan, lads," he ordered his men in the second car. "Pistols only, with silencers. I don't need the whole fucking town waking up to a gunfight."

"_Understood, sarge,_" Liam answered promptly.

Ford watched impassively as the flashlights of the sentries grew more discernable in the near distance. Already, he could count out a few shapes — three...five. Seven, in total? Christ, this was going to be a tough one.

"How's your French, King?" he asked casually as he twisted on the silencer to the barrel of his pistol.

"Buggered, sarge," King answered candidly. "Never thought I'd need it."

"Shows what you know," Ford remarked before setting the pistol on his lap, pointed ever so slightly up towards the window. "All set back there?" he asked as he glanced back.

"Set, sarge," Buchanan confirmed as she held her pistol on her lap as well. Petrovsky, for his part, nodded as he held it near his thigh, though naturally pointed away from any flesh — or in his case, armour.

Ford nodded before turning to King. "Alright, King; bring us in close."

"Right-o, sarge. One mentally arsed trip to the wolf's den, coming right up!" he answered before bringing them right up to the sentry post, where already the DGSE agents, all wearing what appeared to be normal Belgian army uniforms, began approaching, calling out to them in a mixture of French and Dutch. In fact, if it wasn't for the fact that they _knew_ that the Queen was in Chiny, Ford might've actually taken them for actual Belgian soldiers.

However, no Belgian soldier would be wielding distinctly _French_ FAMAS assault rifles.

"Sarge..." King said somewhat urgently as the French agents began pounding on his window.

"Wait till they've reached the second car," Ford insisted as he watched another one tap on his window as well. "Buchanan, Petrovsky; how many you got eyes on back there?"

"Four, counting yours, sarge," Buchanan answered promptly, her pistol already up and levelled at one of the soldiers standing behind Ford's would-be interrogator. Petrovsky, too, had his pistol aimed up at the window, but maintained his stoic silence.

"_Sarge_," Liam's voice crackled in his comm unit. "_We've got eyes on four. Request instructions._"

"On my mark, open fire," Ford instructed, ignoring the gradually more aggressive pounding the agents were giving the windows. Any second now, they'd probably start shooting. In fact, he watched one start to raise his FAMAS, and Ford knew it was time. "MARK!"

Seven shots fired from both cars, followed swiftly by another shot from Petrovsky which similarly downed another agent, caught flat-footed as seven of his colleagues were suddenly and ruthlessly gunned down.

"Buchanan, Petrovsky," Ford ordered simply.

Both soldiers knew what to do, and promptly deserted the vehicles to check on their victims. Additional shots were fired into each corpse to ensure they were dead before both of them returned to the car.

"No radios," Buchanan reported, looking rather confused. "How the hell were they going to communicate any trouble?" she asked.

"The old fashioned way, I imagine," Earthshaker suggested even as the cars prepared to resume their journey. "Fire or flares. Just because the power's gone out doesn't mean these blokes haven't found a way around those issues."

"No kidding," Ford muttered as he checked his ammunition supply. He'd only fired one shot, but he liked to keep track of how many rounds he had left after every combat engagement — he tended to lose track of these things in the heat of battle. "Still, didn't see any signals go up when we got close, so maybe we're still good."

"'Maybe' doesn't save lives, sergeant," Earthshaker chided him sternly. "Private Buchanan, please check the dead for any signalling system."

There was a pause where Ford imagined Buchanan glanced at him for confirmation — still somewhat unused to as they were to be taking orders from mages — before nodding and climbing back out. "Yes, sir!"

There was a brief pause as Buchanan searched the bodies one by one, any expression she might've had hidden by her helmet as she kicked, rolled, and pawed at the dead bodies of the DGSE agents. It wasn't glamorous work, but unfortunately it was just as necessary as having good aim.

"_Found a flare gun,_" she transmitted via comm. "_Ten flares. All there. Doesn't look like they used it at all._"

Earthshaker nodded, as though he'd been expecting as much. "It figures," he noted calmly. "Chiny is rather out of the way of any major supply line or theatre of battle. Up until we had this mission, most of us, I reckon, wouldn't have even known it existed."

Fair point, in Ford's opinion. He'd had to look up Chiny on the GPS after the briefing to even situate the region it was nestled in. It didn't stretch any imagination to believe that the DGSE agents had been afforded virtually unmolested occupation in the small village without anyone noticing.

"Bring the launcher and rounds with you, Private," Earthshaker ordered. "Never know if we could need it."

"_Understood. On my way back._"

* * *

Ford didn't know _what _it was, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was leading his men right into a trap_._

Many things contributed to that gut feeling — first off, his team had been split, as per the plan. Meteor and Earthshaker had both taken upon themselves, along with Buchanan and Bergstein, to head into the forest on the western outskirts of the village and, upon the agreed time, cause a massive distraction that would _hopefully_ lead the majority of the Queen's kidnappers away from whatever compound she was in.

Secondly, despite having called up headquarters so Agent Smith could get the UAV in the air, the scans had been unable to pick up much signs of life in the village, other than in a single particular building — which seemed about right in terms of where the DGSE would _want_ to keep a hostage. Big house, lots of open lawn, and multiple exit vectors. Even so, the lack of movement anywhere else in the village concerned him; were they hiding, gone, or lying in wait for his team because they already knew that Guardian was on its way?

Personally, Ford was hoping for option 2.

And thirdly, it was just pure gut instinct. And for soldiers, that meant a hell of a lot more than any piece of intel coming from a building hundreds of kilometers away.

As such, he kept his rifle up, a decent amount of paranoia keeping his instincts razor sharp as he led his team up the road leading to the backyard of the target house. Seven houses on his right, two on his left.

Had he mentioned how much he hated this setup?

"Eyes on the houses," he muttered unnecessarily into his comm, his soundproof helmet keeping the team remarkably quiet as they trotted up the street. Four winks on his HUD confirmed his order.

"_Should we clear the houses?_" Liam asked tightly, his almost mechanical movements indicating how stressed out he was as he followed his sergeant.

"Negative," Ford answered promptly, lifting his rifle up as he passed by a house's windows. No movement, much to his relief. "Too much noise. And if we find someone, our cover's blown."

"_Who says it isn't?_" asked King sarcastically. "_It's like we're walking down a fucking turkey shoot, sarge!_"

"I hadn't noticed," Ford said sarcastically. "Cut the chatter, lads. Can't afford to get distracted now."

Again, four winks.

He switched frequencies then. "Team One Actual, this is Team Two Actual, what's your status, sir?"

Earthshaker's calm voice answered him, allowing Ford some measure of relief. "_We're in position, sergeant. Ready to light it up on your go._"

"Copy that, Captain," Ford acknowledged as he finally reached the seventh house on his right and noted no enemy movement. "We are nearing the staging area. ETA two mikes."

"_Copy, sergeant._"

Ford waved his men forward as he picked up the pace now, his armored boots making remarkably little noise as they jogged over to the last house on the road before the target house's backyard entrance. It looked like a store of some kind.

Well, it didn't matter. All he knew was that they'd finally reached the last leg of their infiltration. Soon enough, bullets would be whizzing about and his odds of survival would probably plummet accordingly. Raising a fist, he halted the column of soldiers at the corner of the store's property, right before a row of man-and-a-half tall hedges that blocked his view of the road leading to the target compound. That could be a problem.

Turning to face his men, he glanced up and pointed at Petrovsky. "Spectre, up top. Give me eyes on the compound and the road ahead."

A wink answered him — of _course_ Petrovsky would rather do that than talk...silly him for expecting otherwise... — and the marksman slung his rifle onto his back and began the apparently not-so-arduous task of climbing up onto the roof.

"_Shouldn't we leave someone with him?_" asked Alice worriedly.

"_You know the Spectre works better alone,_" Liam pointed out confidently. "_He'll be fine. It's us I'm worried about._"

"_Good point._"

Ford didn't weigh in on the conversation, mostly because he shared Liam's concerns. And that just wouldn't do for their morale. It was important that the entire team believed this mission would go well, otherwise a single psychological crack could doom them all.

Ford soon watched Petrovsky's feet disappear from view as the marksman remained flat on his belly and used the indentation of the house's roof to remain practically out of sight. Coupled with the pitch black darkness and their all-black armour, he'd be invisible for as long as he wanted to remain that way.

"Talk to me, Spectre," Ford ordered after a moment. "What's the road like?"

There was a pause before a deep, Ukrainian-accented baritone answered him. "_Patrol on the road. Headed back to compound. Ten frogs. Twenty guarding the backyard._"

Ford watched as Alice flinched in surprise at Petrovsky's voice and smothered a smirk. Despite serving alongside each other since the beginning of the war, it was still quite the surprise to hear the man's voice given his penchant for utter silence. Alice had even been wondering whether to take up sign language classes to communicate with him. "Understood," he acknowledged before sighing. "That seems to match with our intel. Time for Team One to earn their paychecks."

He switched frequencies, motioning for the team, now minus Petrovsky, to flatten themselves against the hedges. As long as they didn't move much, the cover of darkness and the hedges themselves would keep them out of sight.

"Team One Actual, this is Team Two Actual," he reported in. "We have arrived at staging area and have reconned the area, sir. We have eyes on thirty-plus tangoes between us and the target."

"_Understood, sergeant,_" Earthshaker replied promptly. "_Initiating distraction in one mike. Mark._"

Ford eyed the digital clock reading on his HUD and kept an eye on it as he keyed into his team's comms once more. "Team One's lighting the buggers up in thirty seconds, lads!" he informed his team. "Spectre, keep your eyes on the frogs and tell me as they react!"

A wink answered him. Twenty seconds.

"Remember, once we are in sight of the compound, make for the hedges on the edge of the backyard!" he reminded his team. Sixteen seconds. "Spectre, cover us as needed!"

Four winks. Ten seconds.

Ford looked towards the forest to the west. He didn't know what exactly he was hoping to see, but whatever it was, it didn't happen yet. There was no build-up of light, no aurora in the sky or any sign of what was about to happen. It disappointed him a little.

Five seconds.

He keyed up Agent Smith. "This is Team Two Actual, Task Force Guardian. We are a go, Castle Base. Over and out."

And just as he finished, the sky above the forest exploded into fire.

"Backs into the hedges!" Ford hissed as he realized the light show was probably going to kill any camouflage their black armour had afforded them thus far. Outside, he could hear — thanks to the microphones implanted into the outer layer of his helmet — the surprised shouting of the DGSE agents on the other side of the arboreal cover that kept his men hidden from thirty-plus armed enemies. "Spectre, talk to me!"

"_Forty tangoes in the yard._" the marksman revised his estimate calmly. "_Commandos. DGSE Black Ops._"

"_Guess Smith's intel wasn't wrong, then._" Liam pointed out unhelpfully. "_Kinda wishing it was._"

"You and me both," Ford agreed in a mutter he didn't dare transmit. The sound of many, many boots crashing into the ground beside him had him stiffen. "Spectre."

"_Thirty five moving out towards the main road._" Petrovsky reported calmly, as though his life wasn't in jeopardy _at all_. "_Five guarding the yard._ _Can see others in the windows. Three._"

"Take the ones in the windows out," Ford ordered. He didn't need to say much more than that, knowing Petrovsky had this.

As he expected, the marksman did nothing for a while as the light show continued, allowing all thirty five troopers to pass right by his team's hiding spot. He didn't even fire as the five in the yard began patrolling the area carefully.

And then another explosion in the western woods resounded, and Petrovsky fired.

Ford waited for a report, not daring to intervene in the marksman's concentration as Petrovsky did his bloody work. Snipers were notoriously capable of enormous concentration, and breaking one's such state usually left them irritated and more likely to miss a shot — potentially giving themselves away.

Two more shots rang out dully in the background of the explosions overhead. "_Targets eliminated. No reaction from indoors._"

Ford nodded before reaching into his pack and taking out three items, tossing one to each of his remaining section. "Anti-Apparation and Anti-Portkey ward," he informed them. "One on each cardinal point of the house. Liam, you get northeast. King, northwest. Alice, southwest. I've got southeast. Clear out the yard and then put these into place; press the red button to activate your edge. Call it out when done. Clear?"

Three winks on the HUD.

Ford nodded tightly. He breathed in deeply as he pushed back on his nerves, wrestling his instinctual fear down into the pit of his stomach as he readied himself for his part. "Alright. On me, Paras!" he barked. "Paras lead the way!"

"_URA!_" Alice, Liam, and King called back.

* * *

_**VANGUARD Main Operating Base 'Olympus,' Belgium...**_

"Ma'am, Task Force Guardian has initiated its assault."

Josefina wanted so desperately to utter 'duh!' to the technician keeping watch on the UAV's live feed, but managed to restrain herself from doing so. It would be entirely unbecoming of her position. Not that she usually cared, but she'd rather not look like a child as she oversaw possibly one of the most critical operations of the war thus far.

"Confirm enemy numbers," she ordered tightly, now biting her thumb as she watched, standing ramrod straight, as the live feed showed major bursts of fire coming from the western forest while a mass of people charged towards it.

"Counting thirty-five enemy combatants, ma'am," one of the analysts answered promptly.

"Thirty-five against four," she muttered in dismayed amazement. "I _knew_ we should've sent in more men," she chastised herself.

Yes, she knew two of Guardian's Team One were Military Mages, but that didn't assuage her fears at all. Harry had been a Military Mage throughout Spain and had almost died more than a few times. The incident where he'd been pierced by a rod of steel due to an enemy ambush remained vivid amongst her memories of the war.

It had been the moment when she'd realized that for all his powers, even Harry, perhaps the most dangerous of the Military Mages alive, was mortal.

"They're going to need air support before this is over," she noted grimly. "What's the status on those Typhoons I asked for?"

"Air Force says they're on station and waiting for the order, ma'am!"

Josefina nodded, pleased that at least her contingency plan was in place and ready to go. As a spy, the odds that Guardian was facing right now would've been enough to have her fall back and call for backup, yet these grunts — as she'd regarded them — had the nerve to keep going regardless. She idly wondered if they would've been so brave if neither mage had been present.

For some reason, she felt they would've.

* * *

_**Chiny, Belgium...**_

Ford broke into a sprint the moment Petrovsky told him most of the yard guards had turned their back to the road.

His world seemed to jumble up and down as he pushed his body to its limits, desperate to clear the path as quickly as possible to allow his men a clear shot at the guards, knowing he couldn't possibly take them all out on his own — not without giving them a suitable chance to shoot him back.

The yard came into view quickly. Thanks to the mages' light show, it wasn't nearly as dark as he'd hoped it would be, but quickly put that disappointment aside as he lay eyes on the five guards who'd stayed behind to maintain perimeter security. No doubt whoever was in charge had opted to check things out before hitting the panic alarm, otherwise everyone would've cleared out by now.

The one on the farthest left turned as Ford's armoured footsteps began to be audible despite the blasts coming from the forest. Ford saw the man's eyes widen and his mouth begin to morph into a shout, and knew he had to act fast.

His steps slid into a halt and his rifle rose in less than a second, two popping noises heralding the suppressed sound of his rifle fire. The guard went down with a hole in his head and one in the chest — lucky shots.

"Engage, engage!" Ford barked into his comm as he already swung his rifle to the next target, who'd noticed his colleague's demise and was shouting at the others to counter their attack.

Four remained — one for each of them. Again he fired, missing both times before a third shot caught his second target in the thigh. Not a kill shot, and so the man went down screaming, his instinctive grasp on the trigger causing the weapon to fire loudly into the air. That got the others' attention.

"Spectre, take one out!" Ford ordered quickly. "Doc, get your ward in place!"

Alice obeyed without question as she broke into a sprint towards the south-eastern corner of the property, ignoring the sound of weapons fire as she made for her destination. In exchange, Petrovsky quickly gunned down one of the guards as Liam and King both scored hits as well and brought down their targets.

Ford quickly trotted up to the one he'd wounded and kicked away the gun before knocking the man out with the butt of his rifle. "He'll be fine," Ford said brusquely. "Smith'll want a few alive for intel. King, Mac, get your wards in place!" he ordered.

Two winks, just as Alice broke into the conversation. "_Southeastern ward is in place and active!_" she reported before running back to his side.

Ford nodded at her as King and Liam made for their own target areas. "You're with me, Doc," he told her. "Let's go!"

Again, he broke into a run as he skirted the outside of the house, keeping his sight split between the occasional windows and the area he knew his ward was needed at. Fortunately, the house didn't seem to believe in open lighting, as the few windows he saw were easily skirted beneath or were high enough to tell him they were bathroom windows.

Reaching the south-western corner of the property, he slid neatly into spot and turned his head briefly towards Alice. "Doc, keep me covered!" he ordered as he dug into his pack and retrieved the cubic device, setting it down on the lawn by a few hedges, thereby keeping it suitably out of sight.

"_Northwest is clear and active, sarge!_" Liam called in as Ford pressed the red button on his device, activating it.

"Copy that, Mac," Ford acknowledged. "Southeast is active!"

"_Figures King would be last,_" Alice noted wryly.

"_Blow me, Doc,_" King answered flatly.

"You two can discuss your fantasies later, troopers!" Ford barked as he got back up and unslung his rifle back into his hands. "King, what's the status on your ward?"

A shot rang out, causing Ford to feel his blood turn to ice.

"_Fuck! Fucking wanker came out of nowhere!_" King swore over the comm, alleviating much of Ford's fears. "_Sentry, sarge. He's deader than swing music._"

"And the ward?" Ford pressed.

"_On it, on it...jeez!_" King complained. "_And I'm fine, thank you for asking!_"

"_We weren't, you fucking prima donna!_" Liam cut in wryly. "_What's taking you so goddamn long?!_"

There was a hum then, coming from the ward devices. Ford watched curiously as the hum grew louder before a beam of red magic shot out of the device, arcing up into the sky a point right above the house. He could see three other beams shoot up, and all four met dead center over the compound."_There, got it!_" King crowed victoriously. "_See? Nothing to it!_"

Ford shook his head in exasperation as the ward set in and coalesced briefly into a semi-circular barrier around the property, before slowly dissipating from sight. Others might've panicked about that, but Earthshaker had assured him that the effect was quite natural, and the ward was very much active.

Speaking of which, he quickly keyed into Team One's frequency and flinched as he heard all four members practically shouting at each other. "Team One Actual, this is Team Two Actual; ward is in place! We are breaching ASAP! Over!"

"_Copy that, sergeant! We are taking fire and holding for now!_" Earthshaker replied, the other three voices suddenly disappearing from the comm. No doubt the mage had cut them off. "_We will be launching our __counter attack__ immediately!_"

Ford nodded, a grim smile forming on his face. While the mages, Buchanan, and Bergstein had always had the ability to wipe out the thirty-five agents attacking them, fear of enemy mages had caused them to retain a purely distractionary role. Once the wards were up, however, there would be no danger of enemy mages making a hasty retreat with the monarch's wife.

"Spectre, we will be breaching in one mike!" Ford informed his marksman. "If anyone unfriendly comes out that back door, put them down!"

A wink answered him, prompting Ford to look over to Alice. "Get the charges prepped," he ordered briskly. "Mac, King: Doc and I will be breaching via the southeastern wall. I want you two to breach the front door and provide flanking action! Clear?"

Two winks answered him. Ford was glad to have these men on his team — whatever their quirks off the battlefield, they knew when to whine and bitch and when to get their game faces on. Keeping watch over Alice as she brought out the breaching charges, and got ready to set them up. He stopped her with a motion, however, as he wanted to make absolutely sure they were in the right place.

He quickly keyed in HQ. "Castle Base, Castle Base, this is Guardian Team Two Actual," he said quickly. "Need confirmation of the hostage's location."

There was a pause before he heard a man's voice — not Agent Smith. "_This is Castle Base, Team Two Actual. UAV infrared feed indicates the hostage appears to be in the southeastern structure against the north wall. Please copy._"

Ford nodded at Alice, who resumed her work in prepping the charges, before returning his attention to the comm. "Copy that, Castle Base. Readying for breach! Have those choppers handy! Team Two Actual out."

Much like with her medical work, Alice was quick and surgically precise as she set up the charges on the wall. Too much would kill everyone inside. Too little would only serve to blow their cover and probably doom the witness to a swift execution. Alice, however, put just enough to make sure whoever was on the other side of that wall would be having a lousy day without killing them.

"_Charges set!_" she called out before sliding against sideways out of the shaped charge's blast radius. "_Ready to breach!_"

"Mac, Liam, on the boom!" Ford reminded his subordinates. Two winks answered him again, prompting him to take position on the other side of the breaching section. Alice would go in left, he would go in right.

Or was there another way?

Halting in his tracks, he ignored Alice's confused questions as he remembered that his armour was _not_ the one he used in Operation Cobra, or during Le Havre. Guardian's suits were all experimental, and each had an ability unique to each suit. His was...

Indestructibility.

Brief indestructibility, true, but it _would_ keep him safe even mid-blast. Assuming the ballistic gel managed to keep the shockwave from making his insides turn into liquid.

"Doc, blow the charges on my mark!" he ordered as he took a running position maybe four meters from the exact center of the blast area. Anyone else would've been utterly stupid to do this, but he was confident the eggheads at R&D wouldn't have sent an flawed prototype into the battlefield.

"_Sarge, what the fuck are you doing?!_" the medic asked frantically. "_You'll be killed!_"

"The armour'll keep me safe!" he assured her firmly. "Do it, Doc!"

Alice hesitated for a moment, unsure what to do. As the team medic, she knew better than anyone what would happen to him if his boast ended up being empty grandstanding. "_Damnit, Sarge, this isn't the time to test out the new fucking toys!_" she chided him, still refusing to press the button. "_Get over here!_"

Ford knew she was right, but at the same time he knew that if the people inside thought the Queen was more of a liability than an asset, she'd be killed on the spot. The few seconds he could gain of advantage were worth the risk. And if all else failed, he knew Liam would lead the section right.

"Do it, Doc," he repeated, firmly and softly. There was no hesitation in his voice anymore.

Alice must've stared at him for a full second — though it felt a hell of a lot longer — before she turned, swore colourfully at him through the comm, and ducked just as she activated the detonator.

Ford already had one foot stepping forward.

The blast was remarkable, viewed from where he stood. It was like a mixture of fire and concrete, and the awe it inspired nearly cost him his life as he activated the suit's feature just before the first pieces of debris hit him. Nothing, not a single feeling of impact. How remarkable!

But he had little time to appreciate the resilience of the armour — fifteen seconds, in fact.

Sprinting forward, his rifle already raised, he charged right into the storm of debris, feeling nothing of the concrete's impact on his armour. How on earth was it doing such a thing? It should've been impossible by all reckoning of physical science!

Yet there he was, charging through the dust and concrete as though he were pushing through clouds, and even as the occupants within the room reeled from the breaching blast, he was already upon them. Paying no heed to the fact that Alice would soon be following, Ford ground to a halt about two half a meter into the room, taking quick count of the enemy combatants within the premises.

One, two, four...seven.

One with robes.

Designating the robed woman the priority target, Ford raised his rifle and quickly brought the apparent mage down with two shots to the arms, likely incapacitating her from using her spells on him and his team. "Enemy mage down!" he barked into his comm. Another series of pops told him Alice had followed him into the breach as two more of the occupants fell to the floor.

Good, he had his backup.

Fixing his gaze on the slouched figure at the back of the room, tied to a chair and looking like shit, Ford immediately paired the woman's features with the briefing photo of Elicia Eisenheim, Queen Consort of the Northern Sun. A quick portkey would've been enough to get her out of there, but their own wards nixed that possibility in the bud. Instead, he turned and, with Alice covering his back, they quickly gunned down the remaining four combatants, who were just beginning to snap out of their stupor.

Just in time, too, as the last one managed to get off a shot at him, pinging his invulnerable armour just before the effect wore off. As it stood, his armour showed no damage, but Ford knew that a second later and he would've needed medical attention.

Speaking of which, Alice wasted no time in going for the Queen's slouched figure, her hands already reaching for her medpack and instinctively bringing out every tool she'd already memorized having in her inventory that she would require to check up on the Queen.

Gunfire quickly drew his attention, however, as the comms crackled to life again. "_Sarge, King and I are inside the building, but there's a couple of tangoes going your way!_" Liam reported, sounding very irritated with himself.

Ford nodded to himself and raised his rifle to point at the door. "Understood. I've got them."

Indeed, the moment the door flung open, Ford unleashed the full automatic capabilities of his rifle on the intruders, cutting the two inbound soldiers down effortlessly. "Targets eliminated. Athena is secure. Spectre, sitrep on the situation outside," he ordered briskly.

"_Enemy reinforcements coming out of the northern sectors,_" Spectre answered flatly. "_Counting forty-plus tangoes headed for the forest. Thirty attempting to flank Team One._"

That was bad, though he was sure Earthshaker could handle it. Two Military Mages against less than a hundred opponents? No problem.

"Team One, be advised that you have seventy-plus tangoes headed your way," he informed them regardless; after all, it paid to know where and when the enemy was coming from, even if you outgunned them spectacularly. "Thirty appear to be on a flanking mission, over."

"_Understood, Team Two Actual,_" Earthshaker replied calmly. "_Thanks for the head's up. What's the word on Athena?_"

Ford turned to Alice and gazed at her through his polarized visor. "How's the Queen doing, Doc?" he asked her simply.

Alice, apparently feeling too constricted by her helmet, had discarded the protective gear and was swearing up a storm as she checked the Queen's vitals. "She's been badly hurt, but she'll live," she reported eventually, her lips tightly pressed together in disapproval at her charge's state. Quickly, she withdrew a pill, cut it in half, and gently made the Queen swallow it. "Alright, I've dosed her with half a dose of Provigil. It'll suck for her in a bit, but at least she'll be conscious in a few mikes. She needs to get out of here ASAP, however, sarge."

Ford nodded before turning back to Earthshaker's comm frequency. "Athena is secure, but requires evacuation ASAP. I'm calling it in, Captain."

"_Do it, sergeant. Team One Actual out._"

Ford wasted no time in switching frequencies. "Castle Base, Castle Base, this is Guardian Team Two Actual. Athena is secure and ready for evac. I say again, Athena is secure and ready for evac. Calling it in now!"

* * *

_**VANGUARD Main Operating Base 'Olympus,' Belgium...**_

Josefina let out an explosive sigh of relief amidst the spontaneous cheering that Ford's communiqué caused.

So many things could've gone wrong — could _still_ go wrong — that she hadn't allowed herself to feel relaxed a single second after the operation had begun. Hell, she hadn't moved from the exact spot she'd occupied since she took command of the operation, she was so anxious!

"Confirm the order when the evac crew calls it in," she ordered one of her technicians. Without needing further prompting, she listened as the man ordered the helicopters to move into the area and evacuate Task Force Guardian and their charge.

Rubbing the bridge of her nose tiredly, she allowed herself to laugh a little, even if _was_ just a nervous reflex to the amount of stress she'd been building up. Heavens, how had she managed to get through this without killing someone? It was a damned miracle, that's how.

Even so, the work wasn't done, and feeling confident now could prove the mission's undoing — after all, there still remained 70+ enemy combatants in the area that they hadn't been able to account for. Had they been hiding in basements? Even if they hadn't known Guardian would come, it was a sound strategic move, as this much concentration of military manpower in such a small village would've raised suspicions a lot faster.

"Order the First Platoon to commence the invasion of Chiny," she commanded firmly, thus reminding her people that the job wasn't done — not by a long shot. "and I want those Air Force Typhoons taking down anything that isn't ours!"

"Yes, ma'am!"

"Ma'am, Air Force is saying both Typhoons are on their way to the target area. They could use on the ground markers to differentiate friend from foe, however!"

Josefina nodded. "Inform Captain Earthshaker to pop flares," she ordered, sweeping her hand in a wide arc. "I want every last Frenchman in Chiny to pay dearly for their insult towards the Northern Sun!"

"Yes, ma'am!"

"First Platoon is on the move, ma'am," another analyst informed her. "They should be across the eastern river in five minutes."

"Too slow," she stated firmly. "Tell them to pick up the pace before Guardian gets overwhelmed by enemy forces!"

She barely listened to the man's acknowledgement as she settled her gaze on the realtime feed from the UAV — still with thirty minutes of air time. The mass of enemy soldiers heading towards Team One was decreasing rapidly as the Military Mages did their bloody work, but Josefina knew that just because the two mages could kill hundreds with ease, didn't mean they weren't susceptible to a well placed sniper bullet. The sooner they were extracted, the better.

"It's not over yet, people!" she reminded her crew. "So let's not drop the ball here in the endgame!"

* * *

_**Chiny, Belgium...**_

Paradoxically, the very same place Ford had considered an invitation to have his squad butchered now became the best place for the helicopters to land and get them out of there.

"Spectre, we are oscar mike to the evac zone with Athena! Keep a lookout for stragglers!" he ordered as he moved towards the backyard, King and Liam providing cover as he and Alice carried the Queen. The poor woman seemed alright enough, but the bruises and numerous cuts were a testament to the fact that she had _not_ gone through captivity unscathed.

"_What about the mage and agent back there, sarge?_" asked King as he swung his rifle to and fro, his reflexes honed to a razor edge as the young man tried to come down from the adrenaline high of the compound breach.

"We'll get them afterward," Ford stated through gritted teeth. "Athena comes first."

"_Guardian Team Two, this is Whiskey Five-One, on approach from your south, copy, over._"

And there was their ride. Ford usually hated looking up at the sky in a battlefield, as it was always the slightest distractions that got you killed. Even so, he chanced it this once as he looked towards the comparatively peaceful south of the town for any sign of the chopper in question. Fat chance — if the pilots had any matter between their ears, they would've painted the damn thing black, making visual confirmation a bitch.

"Copy, Whiskey Five-One," Ford answered. "This is Guardian Team Two Actual. We have Athena in custody, plus two enemy prisoners, one mage-class, one foot soldier. Activating strobes to designate LZ."

_That_ probably got the crew's attention more than even the announcement of the Queen's successful rescue. There was no telling what havoc a restrained mage could do, especially on an aircraft. Shielded or not, magic was a damned dangerous thing.

"_Negative, Team Two Actual_," the pilot responded quickly. "_Our orders are to evac Athena and Athena alone. You want the prisoners, you'll need to take them up on your own ride._"

It just figured. There was no way any sane person would risk the safety of the King's wife at this stage of the game.

"Fine," Ford answered flatly. "What's your ETA?"

"_One minute out, Team Two Actual._"

Well, that didn't sound too bad, though as a soldier on the battlefield, he was well aware that 60 seconds could feel as long as forty hours with remarkable ease. All it took was for something to go FUBAR and then every second would feel like endless torture.

"And our exfil?" he pressed, keeping an eye around for enemy soldiers appearing out of nowhere, even if he already had King, Liam, Alice, and Petrovsky covering every possible angle. One more pair of eyes couldn't hurt. Ever.

"_Whiskey Five-Two and Five-Three_ _are oscar mike, ETA ten mikes, Team Two Actual._"

Fan-freaking-tastic.

Ten minutes still stuck in this battlefield, outnumbered and possibly outgunned, while the one chopper close enough to evac them _wouldn't_, on account that it could not possibly wait for Team One to reach the evac site. It just wouldn't do to keep the Queen in harm's way for longer than absolutely necessary, after all.

Nevermind that the mages, as he understood it, could just evac Buchanan and Bergstein via Apparation, or their Portkeys. Sodding arseholes.

Fortunately for his career, Ford opted to say none of these things. Instead, he just confirmed the order, clicked off the comm, and then proceeded to say everything he thought of the mission's evac procedures in the safety of his soundproof helmet.

Then, calmly, he keyed up the TEAMCOM and delivered the bad news. "Athena's evac's ETA is one mike, people," he informed them. "Ours is ten. Check your ammo and gear."

Whether or not the rest of Team Two had reacted the same way he had was beyond his ability to discern, thanks to their polarized visors and equally soundproof helmets. Judging from body language, however, King had probably had a few choice words to say.

"Ugh..."

"Sarge, Athena's coming to," Alice informed him, her external speakers activated no doubt for the Queen's benefit. Turning his head, he noted that the woman whose left arm was draped across his shoulders was indeed starting to come out of her daze.

Imitating his subordinate, Ford activated his external speakers. "Evening, Your Majesty," he greeted her calmly. "Try to stay calm; my name is Sergeant John Ford, Northern Paratroopers, and we're here to get you back safe and sound to your family," he informed her quickly, not wanting to waste more time than necessary on unnecessary details.

He nudged his head in Alice's direction, who was already in turn reaching for her medkit for additional supplies, knowing that in an awake state, the Queen could be feeling some of the damage much more vividly. "This here is Doc Donahue, ma'am, she'll be seeing to your health while we clear the area."

"You'll be fine, Your Majesty," Alice told her kindly as she helped her sergeant heft the hurt woman over to the extraction point.

"_Visual on Athena's evac. ETA twenty seconds,_" Petrovsky informed Ford via TEAMCOM then. Eyeing the sky, Ford barely discerned the black shape of the Westland Lynx coming their way.

Ford nodded. "Your ride's nearly here, Your Majesty," he informed her. "You're nearly home free." He motioned for Alice to kneel down in tandem with himself, thereby presenting the smallest target for any last-minute assassination attempt on the Queen's person.

How much the Queen was understanding of what he was saying, he didn't know. At least, not until she finally spoke up, though the noise of the incoming chopper threatened to drown her out entirely. "Thank you, sergeant," she thanked him weakly, yet earnestly. "Thank you all _so__ much_."

Ford nodded at her, then at Alice as they hobbled over to where the chopper had landed. Already, its crewmen, one of which was covering him and Alice as they carried the Queen to safety, were shouting at him to haul ass — typical impatience from these flyboys, in his opinion. Hurrying could just aggravate the Queen's wounds, and he wouldn't have any of that on his watch.

As steadily as he could alongside Alice, they brought the Queen to the chopper and carefully handed her over to the medic they'd flown in, who checked the Queen Consort over once, nodded at Alice as she quickly gave a brief overview of her findings regarding the Queen's condition, tapped the kneeling crewman on the shoulder, then escorted her into the helicopter, taking special care to slam the custom-installed reinforced door behind him once the final crewman was in. Within seconds, the chopper was back in the air.

"_This is Whiskey Five-One to all stations on the net; We have reached the Endzone. Say again, we have reached the Endzone and are oscar mike back to Castle Base. __Five-One ou__t._"

Ford smiled as he watched the helicopter drift away quickly, the French soldiers barely registering the whole sequence of events as they underwent sustained fire from the mages, who, finally being unleashed at their fullest potential, were beginning to carve up the terrain into a nightmarish scene from hell.

The field between Chiny proper and the forest had been torn to pieces. Craters lay as improvised tombs for French DGSE agents, while spontaneous cracks in the earth caused many more to be interred far deeper within the earth. Fires — not the sort of magic either mage was most used to wielding — raged even on grounds where all biological life should have already been extinguished, and more than a few DGSE agents were slowly falling back, though these were quickly brought to heel by their supervisors — all of which naturally remained furthest from the actual fighting.

To add to their misery, the (now) ever-present sight of many of their comrades hanging impaled by solid, earthen spike constructs served as a grim reminder of whom they were dealing with, even as they fought in vain against the mages.

The hesitation of the DGSE combat teams to engage the mage duo and their heavy weapons team was understandable. Out in the open, these men and women were sitting ducks to the mages' devastating area of effect spells. Both had proven their code names several times over, as Earthshaker and Meteor lay waste to the battlefield with remarkable lethality.

Ford could see none of this, to his divided regret. On the one hand, after all the crap the DGSE and the French had put him and his through — not to mention how he'd seen them treat the Queen — he sort of thought that they rather deserved this.

On the other hand, no one should ever have to go through a live entombment.

"Team Two, form up on me," he ordered simply as he checked his weapon, his eyes still scanning the surrounding area for trouble. Even if the house behind him had been cleared, there were no guarantees that DGSE agents _wouldn't_ come out of the woodwork...somewhat literally, in their case.

"Evac's still oscar mike," he informed his team as they milled about them. "Team One's still in the shite, but they're holding their own. Any luck, we should be out of here in..." he checked his mission clock. "Five mikes. Eyes open, weapons checked. I don't want to see any of you sorry arses get no fucking flag draped on you. Understood?"

Four nods answered him, with Liam adding a soft "Ura," to his acknowledgement. All five members of Team Two had their visors depolarized, showing him that he was hardly the only one sweating buckets despite the recycled air in their helmets. The mission had taken a lot out of them, and the worst part was that it wasn't over, not yet.

"Good," he said with a gruff nod. "Spectre, you're back on rooftop duty. Try to give Team One some sniper support if they need it, but mostly make sure we're not about to get overrun by fucking frogs." He nodded as his marksman's icon clicked once and the man's visor polarized. In an instant, Petrovsky was heading back to his perch, marksman-issued rifle already in hand.

Turning to the others, Ford noted idly that King was favouring his left foot. "You injured, King?" he asked the man bluntly.

The youngest member of Task Force Guardian shook his head. "Fell on it when that Frog ambushed me; it's fine, sarge," the man insisted.

Ford kept the younger man's gaze for a moment before turning to Liam. "Liam, you stick with King; make sure he's not bullshitting me. I want you to on the second floor of the house, eyes on the east road. If anyone comes sniffing at our rear, I want them dead before they hit the ground. Understood?"

"Ura, sarge," Liam acknowledged before polarizing his visor and tapping King, whose gaze lingered on Ford for a moment before nodding and following Liam back into the house. That left himself and Alice. Nodding at the medic, he noted that her hands seemed to be shaking a little, something she quickly got back under control.

"You alright, Doc?" he asked calmly.

Alice nodded firmly. "Yeah," she replied, her hands going for her rifle and holding it steady. "Spare adrenaline still shooting me up."

Ford didn't doubt her. Alice wasn't a rookie right out of medic school — like the rest of his section, she'd been in engagements all throughout the war, and been forced to save or oversee the end of many a soldier's life. She wasn't the sort to break under pressure.

"You're with me, Doc. You secure the prisoners and make sure they stay alive, _especially_ the mage. I'll cover the backyard," he told her. The backyard of the house would again serve as their only lifeline back out of the battlefield, and with the hedges around the house, it was absolutely critical that they held the area. Team One, for their part, would have their own LZ to hold — no doubt some impromptu clearing set up by the mages. Either way, the mage he'd managed to incapacitate would provide SIS with _plenty_ of interesting information, he was sure.

With a click of her icon, he watched her polarize her visor and bring up her rifle, ready to go. Nodding back, he shifted his jaw to the left, and felt the pressure trigger for his own visor to do the same. Within moments, the clarity of actual vision was covered with a soft, greenish filter as the HUD element of the visor booted up once more, displaying the Task Force's member icons in much more vivid clarity, as well as the mission objectives — those would fade out after about thirty seconds.

Leading his subordinate back into the house, he watched her disappear back into the room where he'd taken down the mage and stashed the other prisoner, while he took up position on one of the windows facing the backyard, Ford being particularly worried with the hedges that went along the northern and southern edges of the property. He couldn't even reiterate it enough to himself — a blind spot was a lethal spot. If he didn't know what was actively on either side of a visual barrier, then he had to assume it was full of enemies looking to put a bullet in between his eyes.

Even so, as the mission clock continued its slow ascent, he decided it was best to check up on Team One. Keying Earthshaker up on TEAMCOM, he watched as the mage's icon went green, indicating that the communications handshake protocol had been established and confirmed.

"Team One Actual, this is Team Two Actual," he spoke calmly. "VIP has been evacced and our own is oscar mike. Currently holding our primary LZ. What's your status, over?"

There was a hiss of static for a moment before he recognized Earthshaker's voice answering his query.

"_We're holding our own, Team Two Actual,_" Earthshaker announced calmly. "_Enemy forces holding their line at about three hundred meters from our position. Poor chaps don't seem to want to get any closer._"

Ford smirked inside his helmet. He bet they didn't. Sucked to be whoever was in command of the French operation right now.

"Copy that, Team One Actual," he acknowledged the transmission. "Good luck, sir. Team Two Actual out."

With that, the feed went dead. Leaning down, he made himself a smaller target as he bore down the sights of his rifle, training the weapon's barrel across the backyard in his eternal search for hostiles. Perhaps he was every bit as paranoid as other sergeants he knew kept telling him...but at least it meant he hadn't lost a single man to this damned war yet.

A moment later, his comm once again blared to life."_Task Force Guardian, this is Whiskey Five-Two. We are inbound on your position, ETA one minute. Please respond, over_."

Ford sighed in relief. Not a moment too soon. Pressing his chin into the frontal pressure switch, which governed his comm system, he smiled inside his helmet. "Whiskey Five-Two, this is Team Two Actual; Team Two has secured its LZ at the target building, plus two prisoners."

"_Whiskey Five-Two, this is Team One Actual,_" Earthshaker's voice came up then. "_Securing LZ in ten seconds. Please advise, we will be extracting under fire._"

"_Understood, Guardian,_" the pilot responded. "_Team One Actual, Whiskey Five-Three is inbound on your position. Team Two Actual, we will be heading to yours. ETA fifty seconds. Be ready for a hot exfil, lads. Five-Two out._"

Ford nodded to himself before keying up the TEAMCOM. "Alright, lads, our ride's here. Spectre, stay in your position until my mark, understood?"

A wink of Petrovsky's icon answered his query. Turning his attention to Alice's icon particularly, he quickly addressed her own mission. "Doc, I want you to take the prisoners into the chopper first. SIS is going to be needing that intel, especially that mage's, and I don't want that bitch dead before she gets into Agent Smith's hands, understood?"

"_Copy that, sarge,_" the young woman replied steadily.

"Mac, King," he called up the last two members of his team. "Eyes on the front road until the chopper gets here. Understood?"

Two winks answered him, one from each man.

Ford smiled again into his helmet. His section wasn't surprising by any standard, really. On paper, they were just seven grunts following Charlie Section's lead in most engagements. Yet the few heroics they'd done, they'd somehow managed to beat the ridiculous odds he'd pitted them against and survived as a unit, intact but for a few wounds here and there.

It was nothing short of a miracle, or damned good luck. Both ideas worried him greatly, since it meant he couldn't trust the universe not to fuck things up for him at the worst possible times. Murphy was an arsehole like that.

Within a few moments, he heard, then saw the large shape of the Westland Lynx landing on in the backyard, its side-mounted turrets and their gunners sweeping the area for hostiles. On the way in, they'd already sprayed what few enemies remained visible on the field to the forest, so Ford could see a bit of smoke still coming out of the five connected barrels.

"Alright, lads, our ride's here! Doc, get the asset in there now!" he barked into his comm as he left his position and made for the rear door. "Whiskey Five-Two, friendlies coming out the target structure; hold your fire!"

There was a brief acknowledgement that he paid no great heed to, and Ford came out into the backyard suddenly glad for his helmet. The damned chopper was kicking up a hell of a dust storm. Sweeping his gun left and right, he made sure there weren't any sudden surprises before stopping right at the edge of the chopper's midsection, turning to see to it that his men got into their ride out in one piece.

As per his orders, Alice was soon out the building with their prisoners. The female mage's arms had tight bandages wrapped around them, though her hands were tied together by tight, plastic binds before her, every movement eliciting a small cry of pain from the mage. He had no sympathy for her.

Behind her came the other prisoner they'd taken — one of the Black Ops agents they'd wounded during the assault. By the way he moved, he was still feeling the effects of Ford's rifle butt ramming into his head. Alice brought up the rear, naturally, her rifle trained on her prisoners as they trotted over to the helicopter.

Ford quickly activated the external speakers and cranked up the volume loud enough to overcome the roar of the helicopter's rotors. "Prisoners!" he told the crewman covering the backyard with him. The man nodded and relayed the information to the crew inside before waving Alice towards them.

Slowly — almost as if they wanted to drag their capture out as long as possible — the two prisoners were pretty much tossed into the helicopter, where two crewmen — both turret operators — quickly secured them and their hands. No sense risking the vehicle by just letting them sit calmly and without restraint.

Alice was next on the helicopter, at which point Ford keyed up TEAMCOM again. "King, Mac, to the LZ, ASAP!" he ordered.

"_Copy that, sarge_," Liam answered promptly. "_We are oscar mike to the LZ._"

"Spectre, you're up next," Ford informed him soon after, once he saw King and Liam cross the backdoor's threshhold. "On my mark..."

"_Wait,_" Petrovsky's caution cut through Ford like a dagger. No soldier ever wanted to postpone leaving the frontlines after a mission was over. Not without damned good reason.

"Report," he instructed firmly, making sure to change the comm frequency to a private channel.

"_Movement up north, near the town,_" Petrovsky whispered into his ear, even as King and Liam boarded the helicopter. "_One...five...thirty plus tangoes. Moving towards Team One._"

"They'll be too late," Ford stated evenly. "Get down here and let's go."

"Sarge..." Alice's voice called to him from within the chopper. He turned to see his team, the crew, and their two prisoners ready to go. It really was time to go, and he couldn't understand why Petrovsky was being so reticent.

"Spectre, let's go!" he barked.

"_Negative. Call off Whiskey Five-Three, sarge!_" the note of panic in Petrovsky's voice was even more damning. "_Call them off now! RPG!_"

Ford felt his jaw drop subconsciously at the warning. Turning towards the forest's direction, where he could see the shadowed figure of Whiskey Five-Three approaching the dense woodlands against the glow of the battlefield's fires, he watched, stunned as a sudden plume of smoke and fire rammed itself into the chopper, causing the vehicle to explode mid-air.

"_Oh FUCK!_" he heard the pilot of his own helicopter cry out in alarm. "_Whiskey Five-Three is down! I say again, Whiskey Five-Three is down!_"

Smith's voice was soon on the radio again. "_This is Castle Base, what the fuck is going on over there?!_"

"_Bird down, bird down!_" the pilot kept shouting in alarm. "_Sergeant, we need to go right the fuck now!_"

Throughout the panic caused by the downing of Whiskey Five-Three, Ford merely stared, dumbfounded, as the destroyed chopper slowly fell to earth, its burning wreckage all too fatal to the crewmen within. There was no chance anyone had survived that blast. And the worst part? All he could think of was how lucky they were that Team One hadn't boarded yet.

How fucked up was that?

But then the pilot's urgent words registered, and he glared at the helicopter's cockpit. "I am _not_ leaving my men out there," he snapped before keying up Earthshaker's comm. "Team One, Team One, this is Team Two Actual. Are you there, sir?"

Fortunately for his peace of mind, Earthshaker answered promptly. "_Team Two Actual, this is Team One Actual. We're still here, sergeant. Confirming Whiskey Five-Three is down. All crewmen to be assumed KIA._"

"Copy that, Captain," Ford acknowledged, ignoring the glares and shouts of the helicopter's crew as they insisted they leave. His team, for their part, sat at the edge of their seats, their rifles all in hand and ready to go at his order. Bless those idiots for believing in him that much. "Advise you use your emergency portkeys, sir. Get out of there now!"

"_Understood, sergeant; good idea. Leaving the battlefield in thirty seconds,_" Earthshaker acknowledged.

Major blasts resounded from the battlefield before the forest where Team One remained fighting. "Spectre, sit-rep," Ford ordered.

"_Earthshaker and Meteor are lighting it up, sir,_" the marksman reported calmly, having regained his cool since the sudden destruction of Whiskey Five-Three. "_Tangoes keeping their distance._"

"Good, get down here," Ford said while nodding. A goodbye present, he imagined, in revenge for the loss of Whiskey Five-Three. An unnecessary loss, after all, in a mission that should've been over. In fact, he questioned why they'd needed the chopper evac to begin with. The use of Portkeys to get out would've made much more sense.

"_This is Team One Actual to all stations on net,_" Earthshaker's voice returned to the comm. "_We are exfiltrating in five...four...three...two...one..._"

Suddenly, Earthshaker's icon vanished from his HUD — a good sign, since it meant his transmitter was no longer within range. What _wasn't_ a good sign, however, was that Meteor, Buchanan, and Bergstein's icons remained right where they were.

"Team One, what's going on?" he asked calmly, though he had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He watched as Petrovsky finally came down from his perch and approached the chopper, his head tilting slightly in confusion at his CO remaining outside the chopper. Ford ignored him and repeated his query. "Team One, what's going on?" he insisted.

There was a hiss of static before Buchanan's icon flashed. "_Team Two, this is Buchanan! Meteor is down! I say again, Meteor is down! Sniper dinged her in the fucking shoulder and Portkey is out of sight! FUCK!_"

Ford's blood froze. What the _fuck_ was going on in this mission?! Why was everything going wrong in the home fucking stretch?!

"Grab her and get out of there, Buchanan!" Ford snapped, hoping his alarm wasn't bleeding through into his voice. The last thing his troops needed was to think he was panicking.

"_On it, sarge!_" he heard the female part of his heavy weapons team respond. "_Fuck me sideways! Bear, take over for me!_"

If he had to guess, Buchanan had kept her transmitter on, as Ford could hear her breaths as she undoubtedly ran to Meteor's side. "_Got her! BEAR! GET READY TO GO!_"

"Let's go, let's go..." Ford muttered, still ignoring the insisting prompts of the helicopter crew.

"Sarge, what the fuck is going on?" King asked him via his external speakers. Ford ignored him, keeping his attention on Buchanan, Bergstein, and Meteor's situation.

"_Fuck, fuck, fuck!_" Buchanan's potty mouth seemed to get even worse with every passing second, Ford reckoned "_My Portkey's no good! Bear, get over here and give us a lift!"_

What did she _mean_, her Portkey was no good? Was that even possible? To have a faulty Portkey?

"Buchanan, report in!" he barked. He had his suspicions, but he needed them confirmed now. Or rather, he dearly hoped his suspicions were dead wrong.

"_Sir, our Portkeys are no fucking good! I think they set up a bloody ward when we weren't looking!_" Buchanan, to her credit, was trying hard to sound calm, but the fact of the matter was that she had every right to start panicking. The senior mage of the group had left, their only other mage was down, and she and her partner were now the only two soldiers left of Team One still active.

With an unknown amount of enemy forces heading towards them.

"Hold on tight, Private," he ordered as he turned to the chopper and put one foot on, much to the relief of the crew within. "We're coming for you."

"_Fuck that,_" Buchanan stated grimly. "_If that chopper comes over here, they'll just shoot it the fuck down, like the other one. Get out of here, sarge_."

Ford glared at Buchanan's icon. It made for a poor substitute of the young woman's actual face, but it worked to get his anger going. "Listen here, Private, I am _not_ leaving you, Bear, or Meteor behind. Is that understood?!"

"_Sarge..._"

"That is an _order, _Private!" he told her firmly. "We are coming to rescue you, and I am damn well expecting you to _let us_. Is that understood, Private?!"

"_Ura, sarge. We'll hold them off,_" Buchanan answered crisply before killing the comm. Left now with the fact that he had to inform his team of the new mission parameters — because _fuck that_ if Smith or anyone back at home base thought he should leave his men behind — he activated his external speakers and took a deep breath.

"Team One's in a pickle," he informed them. Almost at once, every man of his team was on their feet. He nodded at them and they proceeded to file out, much to the frustration of the crewmen. To that end, he looked at the closest one and nodded. "Get out of here, lads. We'll use First Platoon's assault to exfil. Just get those prisoners to Castle Base."

The crewman looked at him askance for a moment before nodding. "Understood. Ura, Guardian," the man acknowledged with a sharp salute. "Good luck."

Ford nodded in thanks as he stepped back, joining the other members of Team Two as they watched the helicopter slowly begin its controlled ascent. Once they were sure it was on its way out of the combat zone, Ford depolarized his visor and turned to his team.

"Thanks," he told them sincerely. He knew they had no real reason to stay behind — as far as the mission was concerned, they'd succeeded, and so every one of his men had every reason to stay on the bird. He would've loved to have used the chopper as air support, but in that sense Buchanan was right — if the helicopter tried to exfiltrate Team One in any way, the DGSE would likely just blow it out of the air as they had with Whiskey Five-Three.

"Paras stick together, sarge," King told him seriously. If anyone had reason to complain, really, it was King. With his foot in dubious condition, he ought to have remained on the chopper, but Ford knew there was no way he could've succeeded in convincing the younger man to do so without having to knock him out.

"Damn right," Liam grumbled.

Ford nodded in thanks again before getting down to business. "Here's the sit-rep," he informed them. "Team One's still in their original ambush position. Their Portkeys are fucked, most likely because the Frogs and their allies put up a ward. We don't know how large the ward is, or where the mages who put it up are. Spectre," he nodded to Petrovsky. "Saw a large contingent of enemy footsoldiers coming their way. We will have no exfil under First Platoon clears the area of enemy forces, which we don't know when will happen. Last chance to use those portkeys, lads."

"Fuck that, sarge," Alice stated as she jammed a new magazine in her rifle. "We either all leave the field, or none of us do."

"Ura," Petrovsky intoned, rather surprisingly. Even so, the burning determination to follow him in rescuing their comrade was evident in each of his men's eyes. He was proud of serving with them. Proud beyond what mere words could ever state.

"Ura," he agreed, his visor polarizing again and his HUD booting up. "On me, then, Team Two. Let's go save our lads."

"URA!"

* * *

_**VANGUARD Main Operating Base 'Olympus,' Belgium...**_

"Where are they?!"

Josefina barely afforded Earthshaker a glance as the mage stormed into her operations center. She knew the man was livid, and he had good reason to be so. He alone had appeared at the evacuation zone, when he'd been expecting his entire team to follow behind him almost immediately.

For any soldier worth the designation, it was a blow to the gut.

"Trapped," Josefina informed him as calmly as she could, her eyes glued to the screens showing the digital rendering of the battlefield. Red dots were swarming Chiny, heading all towards the forest. With Meteor down and only a single heavy weapons team carrying out the defense, she knew it was just a matter of time before they were overrun.

Indeed, in the middle of the forest, the three blue dots designating Team One seemed pathetically outnumbered before the tide of red dots headed their way. A dark, ominous red circle was also overlayed on top of Team One's position, designating the estimated extent of the ward blocking their prompt exfiltration. Worse still, now that they'd tried using their portkeys, Josefina knew the one-off charm was worthless, so even if they reached the outer boundaries, they were still stuck.

"Lieutenant Meteor was hit by a sniper," she informed the livid mage who stood still at the entrance. "A ward was set up soon after. Team One is trapped."

"And Team Two?" he asked promptly, his fists turning pale from the strength of his grip.

"Apparently headed to rescue your men," she informed him. Personally, she was against the decision — and considering that she'd slaved all of the Task Force's comms to her station, she'd overheard everything being said — but she respected Ford all the more for it. As a spy, all she knew how to do was cut her losses and bail out, but Ford...Ford was the other side of that coin.

He was a leader, much like Harry was, she reflected, back when he'd served in Spain. Unbowed by the odds, neither man would've ever let a single man stay behind just to cover their escape. She liked that, even if she didn't think she could make the same sort of decision.

Frankly, she might've even taken up Buchanan on her suggestion to leave her, Bergstein, and Meteor behind. Every soldier everywhere would've probably hated her for it, but that's what her training told her to do.

"Let me go back in," Earthshaker demanded. "I can help them!"

"No," she told him flatly. "Meteor was deliberately pinged the moment you left," she added before turning to face him, her jaw set and expression grim. "Don't you find that odd? They sprung that ambush the _moment_ you were gone."

Earthshaker glowered at her. "I don't care. Let me go back! They are _my_ men!"

"We are _not_ risking another mage casualty, Captain, so _stand down_." she told him flatly.

Earthshaker was practically shaking with rage as he glared at her, but Josefina knew she had to stand her ground. While she could empathize with his desire to get back into the field after his men, her own point was just as valid. Meteor had been deliberately pinged _after_ the senior mage had left the premises, and with the ward coming up so soon afterward, she had a sinking feeling that the entire government may have misread the intentions of the Queen's kidnapping.

"I need a magical reading on the entire area of Chiny and its surroundings, on the double," she ordered calmly, eyeing a particular tech as she did so. Safe to say, the man got the hint, and was quickly on the phone calling up the Ministry of Magic.

"A magic reading?" Earthshaker, despite his anger, asked, confused. Why would she need a magic reading?

"You'll see," Josefina stated calmly. "I want three SpecOps teams ready to go via Portkey!" she then barked at her subordinates, setting her arms akimbo. She had a feeling, deep in her gut, about what this operation was _really_ about, and she needed confirmation _now_.

"Yes, ma'am!"

"Let me go with them," Earthshaker insisted once again. If she was willing to send out troops, it stood to reason that a mage should go as well, after all. Especially one who had his team stranded on said battlefield.

"No," she replied just as promptly, succeeding in raising his temper even further. "They're not going to Chiny, and I don't need a mage on hand."

"_What?!_" Earthshaker asked, indignant. He swept his hand to motion to the digital render of the battlefield — now devoid of its real-time terrain feed as the UAV's flight time was all but exhausted. "My men are out there fighting for their lives, and you're running another op?!"

She eyed Earthshaker with a glare that brooked no discussion. "Don't assume things you have no proof of," she warned him flatly before turning her attention back to the monitors in front of her. "I want one team in Lacuisine, one in Izel, and one in Florenville."

"Teams are away, ma'am," one technician announced promptly, before pausing for a moment and tapping his earpiece in confusion. "No...wait...Teams are still awaiting departure. There seems to be a problem with the Portkeys, ma'am!"

"Wards," Josefina corrected, her fears slowly becoming realized. Turning to the technician she'd had call up the Ministry, she asked, "What's the situation on that magic reading?"

The man on the phone shrugged at her. "They're keeping me on hold, ma'am. Apparently the readers are showing irregularities in the region, but they can't pinpoint what it is."

Josefina clicked her tongue, glaring at the man for a moment before noticing she was making him greatly uncomfortable. An unfair gesture, given that it wasn't his fault. Rather, as she turned her gaze to the monitors, she slowly began to understand the situation, much like Agent Shang had taught her. Once you had the pieces of the puzzle, the bigger picture they collectively made up slowly put itself together.

"It wasn't the Queen they were after," she analysed in a moment, finally understanding what this entire escapade had been about. It seemed ridiculous — pointlessly extravagant, in fact, but it made sense, as well. She palmed her face softly in unbelieving realization. "Fuck, we were had..."

"What are you talking about?" Earthshaker demanded, reminding her suddenly of his continued presence. Given his anger at her, she'd have expected him to have left the building by now.

"It's our tech," she explained flatly. "It has to be about the tech."

Ignoring Earthshaker's follow-up questions, she strode over to a communications terminal and, pushing aside the technician, called up Neville's HQ via the secure line. She was promptly greeted by an officious-sounding woman.

"_General Longbottom's office._"

"This is Agent Smith, SIS," Josefina introduced herself. "I have an urgent communication for General Longbottom regarding Operation Guardian."

"_One moment, please._" Josefina smiled grimly — at least they'd taken the moment to brief the secretaries about letting her directly through to the General. She _really_ didn't have the time to play authorization games right now.

"_Longbottom here,_" Neville's voice suddenly spoke up.

"General," Josefina greeted him. "This is Agent Smith. I have reason to believe that we have been misled by our enemies regarding the nature of Operation Guardian," she informed him.

There was a brief pause. "_Explain._"

"General, I believe Athena was bait," she informed him. "The moment she was taken out of the picture, the enemy redoubled its efforts despite the loss of the VIP. They seem more intent on taking down Task Force Guardian than keeping Athena in their custody."

"_Every war has its infamous units, Agent. They could just be trying to kill Meteor and Earthshaker._"

"Earthshaker made it out, sir," she informed him. "And Meteor, while down, has barely had enough time on the field to make a name for herself. Nor have Sergeant Ford and his section had any publicity regarding their feats in battle."

Another pause — this one felt heavier to Josefina. Even without seeing him, she knew he was taking this dead seriously. "_And you have a theory._"

"I do," she said with a pointless nod. "Sir, I believe they're after our tech."

For a moment, she thought Neville had just hung up on her, it was so quiet on the other end of the phone. She ran her theory through her mind again, wondering if perhaps she'd overread something in the situation, which, by the way, was still developing. And from the looks of the red dot swarm headed towards Team One of Task Force Guardian, the poor bastards would need a miracle to get out of this alive.

And now that she knew — or thought she knew, anyway — the enemy's real objective, she had to do everything in her power to deny them their prize.

"_That had better be a joke, Agent,_" Neville suddenly spoke up again, a very threatening undertone to his voice. Obviously, he was not pleased with her conclusions. "_Are you __**actually**__ suggesting they deliberately raided our country's capital, attacked the entire Royal Family, and then kidnapped Her Majesty all for a few pieces of our tech?_"

There was no denying it — put that way, her theory was beyond the pale in ridiculousness. Even so, as she went through the whole chain of events in her mind, no other conclusion fitted everything just right. She leaned on the comm station and glared at an invisible image of him of her mind's eye. "I am not, General. I am suggesting they've been _improvising_. We fucked up their plan by speeding it up. That ambush in Liverpool was extremely well thought out, but it failed in its objective. Even worse, the Queen was there, and she was alive. Now what's the _one_ thing we've got that the French don't, sir?"

There was another pregnant pause then, as Neville no doubt assimilated her information. "Our tech." she supplied unnecessarily. "We've been taking the French to school in every traditional engagement because we have tech, and they don't. And who created most of that tech?"

"_Her Majesty..._" Obviously, Neville was coming around to her conclusion. "_Still, why let her go? Why allow Guardian to finish their task?_"

"Any information they extracted from her via magical means might've destroyed her mind," she quickly analysed, remembering the interrogation of the French DGSE agent captured in Liverpool. "They couldn't afford that. The French and whatever allies they might have wouldn't be able to make sense of at least some of the more critical parts of the Queen's research on their own; not soon, anyway. They needed her alive. But when Guardian came along, we gave them a new opportunity."

"_Live samples, you mean,_" Neville supplied then, quickly catching on.

She nodded. "Exactly, sir. Whoever we'd send to rescue the Queen, anyone with any brains would've known we'd send only the best of our troops, using the best of our equipment. Equipment that, if they got their hands on it, could adversely affect the war."

_That_ was an understatement. If the French ever managed to get a hold of the FCE tech, they could reverse the blackout's effects and probably drive the war into an unwinnable quagmire. But Neville likely knew that already.

"_I understand, Agent Smith. You make a very compelling argument,_" Neville told her at length. There was steel in his voice, but at least he was acknowledging her analysis, however much he disliked it. "_What exactly is it you want of me, now that we know?_"

"I need troops, sir," she told him flatly. "More troops. Task Force Guardian is about to be overrun, along with the wreck of one of our extraction helicopters. If they're waiting on First Platoon for extraction, I fear they won't make it."

"_Done,_" Neville stated simply. "_Do what you must, Agent. See to it everything they can use is brought back home._"

Josefina allowed herself a tight smile. "Understood, sir." she answered promptly, before hanging up. Immediately, she turned to the officer whose station she'd shanghaied. "I want a list of all available assets near Chiny _right now_," she ordered him before straightening up and looking towards the rest of her crew.

"Anyone and any_thing_, people!" she elaborated. "If there's an Air Force asset in the air near them, I want to know! If there's a Resistance cell nearby, I want to know! If there's a goddamn bicycle pump they can use to wheel the fuck out of there,_ I want to know!_ Is that clear?!"

"Yes, ma'am!"

* * *

_**Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun...**_

Katerina sniffled as she sat quietly by her father's bedside.

She'd woken up only half an hour ago, a little hungry. One of the men in blue guarding her and her father had been kind enough to get her some food, but almost as soon as she'd started eating, her hunger had faded away. The man had been nice enough to offer to take it away for storage, but she'd refused, insisting she would finish it all.

The food remained right where it was, on the plate before her.

She didn't want to eat. Not really. Her tummy felt full already, and mummy had always told her not to overeat. "If you're full, you're full, sweetheart," she used to say.

The memory just brought tears to her eyes.

She wanted her mum. Her daddy was still asleep and quiet and she hated seeing him that way. Cecilia, or Ceecee as Katie called her, her nurse, had never left her side, but even the poor woman seemed exhausted by the events unfolding around them.

Not that Katie understood them very well. All she knew was that scary men had tried to hurt her, but Ceecee had fought them back angrily. Later, she'd been told her mummy and daddy had been attacked too, but that her daddy had been hurt badly and her mummy was missing.

She'd cried. Hard.

Would her mummy have been angry at her? She didn't think so...after all, mummy always did say there was nothing wrong with crying if you felt sad. And Katie _really_ felt sad...

She glanced over at the still form of her father, still tucked in beneath those pale white sheets the hospital orderlies had put over him. Only his arms, half bare, and his head remained visible to her. She'd never seen him so...not-strong.

It was disconcerting to her. Her daddy had always been a man of extraordinary strength, both in personality and in physical ability. She'd seen him conjure the most amazing feats of fire magic she'd ever seen with remarkable ease — all to make her laugh.

She loved his magic. She knew many people were afraid of her daddy, but Katie could never bring herself to feeling that way. The flames he conjured were so...beautiful, in their own way. Every time he pulled off a spell to entertain her, she'd always felt like she was seeing the blossoming of new life. He'd made fire animals more than a few times when she'd asked for them before going to sleep, the warmth they radiated soothing her into a deep sleep.

Her mummy always scolded him whenever he used fire, of course. Mummy was always very conscious about fire hazards, and having him fling it about, even if just to entertain their daughter, didn't always sit well with the Queen.

Well...not that her daddy seemed to mind. He always laughed and grinned at her mum even when he was being scolded by her. It was weird. When she'd seen other boys get scolded, they usually looked ready to lash out, or became meek.

Maybe it was just an age thing? She wondered if all adult mummies and daddies acted the same way as her mummy and daddy?

Her blonde curls draped her view as she bowed her head sadly. She missed those flames. She'd tried to talk to her father more than a few times since seeing him in the hospital bed, but he remained stubbornly asleep. For a while, she'd thought he might've been playing a game with her — trying to see if she would give up on trying to get him awake before spooking her. But after waiting awhile for the inevitable "BOO!", she resigned herself to admitting it wasn't coming.

She'd cried again then.

Now, though, she felt she was all cried out. She still sniffled now and then, but otherwise she just couldn't bring herself to cry anymore.

"Your Highness?" she heard Ceecee whisper to her, the maid's obscured shape beneath her blanket shifting as the woman woke from her latest forty-five minute nap. "Is everything alright?"

Katie stayed quiet, still staring despondently at the food on her tray. It was cold now — of course it was cold — and it sort of tasted yucky. But then, she'd heard from one of the gardeners' sons who'd been taken to the hospital due to a worrisome fever that hospital food tended to be yucky.

"Oh my," Ceecee fretted as she got up and flattened her clothes a little, wrinkled as they were from sleeping in a chair. Walking softly over, she smiled at Katie before raising her wand and making a slight tapping motion over the food, which started to throw off some steam now. "Cold food can be so yucky, huh?"

Katie nodded slowly, a small smile making her way onto her face. She liked Ceecee. Even before she'd been saved by her. She knew her daddy hadn't always liked the young woman, but her mummy had welcomed Ceecee into their household with open arms. She was nice. Kind, pretty, and a mage, like her daddy!

Nothing like that woman who kept following her daddy everywhere. Astoria. Bleh. Katie didn't really like her — she was mean to Ceecee, always glaring at her or talking down to her. Katie had once huffed after seeing Astoria be mean to Ceecee and started to chase after the mage to kick her in the shins when Ceecee had stopped her. She'd urged the Princess not to do anything rash, and that Astoria had her reasons to dislike her.

Katie hadn't been convinced, but since Ceecee had asked nicely, she'd decided to let it slide.

Still, Astoria had been around a lot. She'd even stopped being mean to Ceecee, even though she still glowered at her whenever the two made eye contact. She'd never seen Astoria act so humbly before — the first thing she'd done when she saw Katie was bow at the waist almost until she was an L. Her long, brown hair had fallen around her head and hidden her face, her body had been trembling with suppressed, impotent rage.

"_I'm so sorry, Your Highness. I have failed you and your family._"

Her voice had been trembling too. Astoria probably didn't realize it then, but Katie had seen tears pool on the floor beneath her face. She'd been devastated by the attacks in her own way.

Katie hadn't known what to do back then. The attack on her own life had been so fresh in her mind, her father's condition and her mother's disappearance had all been taking such a toll on her mind that she'd barely comprehended what was going on around her.

Now, though, she wished she'd given Astoria a hug. She knew _she_ wanted one...one from her daddy and mummy. Ceecee had hugged her a lot since the attacks, always trying to sooth her when another fit of crying overtook her. It wasn't the same. It felt nice, but it wasn't the same.

"Miss Dorcaster?"

Katie looked up at the same time as Ceecee. One of the men in blue was whispering and motioning at her nurse. She wondered why. Usually, they just came inside and spoke in hushed tones.

Ceecee's face paled a little, though it could've just been a trick of the light. Katie looked at her nurse in confusion before Cecilia turned to her and patted her on the head gently with a reassuring smile.

"I'll be right back, Your Highness," she assured the little girl. Katie blinked as she felt the warm hand on her head, her deep green eyes reflecting the boundless uncertainty she was feeling right now. "Be sure to eat your food, alright? For me?"

Katie nodded slowly, watching Ceecee leave like a hawk. Once the door closed behind her nurse, Katie looked down at her food, still wrinkling her nose at the sight of it. She'd mashed up the veggies so much with her fork that it looked like mashed potatoes gone wrong.

Katie looked over to her daddy again. Still quietly breathing, still sound asleep. She wished he'd wake up.

She wished her strong, fearless daddy would come back to her, and save her mummy.

Then they'd all be back together. They'd all be a happy family again.

* * *

_**Laiche, Belgium...**_

"_Ce que vous nous demandez...c'est impossible__!_"

Gabrielle stared down the man on the other side of the table with blatant contempt. "What I'm asking for, _General_, is hardly that," she stated in plain English, much to the man's irritation.

"You are as French as we are, yet you speak to us in our enemy's tongue?" the man chided her, his own English mildly accented. The benefits of a high-class education, she supposed.

Gabrielle flicked her long, nearly-platinum curls over her shoulder with a derisive sniff. "_Now_ you see us as equals, _Général?_" she asked with a sneer. Much as she'd said, the man before her, a high-ranking member of the French Armed Forces — a _Général de Corps_, in fact — had never lifted a finger to succor the persecuted mages of France. Rather, he had sinned by silence. "When France stands at the brink of defeat and our foes throw us a rope?"

"A noose, you mean!" snapped one of the General's delegations, a man wearing the _Général de Brigade_'s twin stars. Another high-ranker. Utterly fantastic. "Turn our arms in? Demilitarize? They would neuter us and call it a favour!"

"And what good are your arms right now, _mon général?_" she asked sarcastically, keeping her sneer firmly in place. She hated these men. All of them. They'd stood by when her kind had been persecuted into hiding in the gutters or residing in little more than glorified ghettos. They may not have liked the policies, they have morally objected to them, but none of them had mobilized their considerable resources to _help_. That made them every bit as evil as the men who'd enacted and enforced the policies, to her mind. "I heard you used weapons from _la deuxieme guerre_. Is that true?" she asked mockingly, turning to face one of her own subordinates to share a private laugh.

She watched from the corner of her eye as the Brigadier General trembled with rage, while the full-blown General stared stonily at her. What did she care? _They_ were the ones who'd come to her for help. Gotten into their heads that _she_ was their ticket to a negotiation between equals with the Northern Sun. How utterly ridiculous.

Equals? Negotiations? Gabrielle could laugh.

She'd talked to Captain Price. She knew what the leadership of the Northern Sun thought like. They weren't about to accept _any_ demands or requests the French offered them unless it complied with their own plan for the French Republic.

Honestly? After that attempt to wipe out the Royal Family in Liverpool — yes, she'd gotten the _real_ story, as opposed to the _official_ one — she could sympathize with the Northern Sun's intractability. They'd enacted tons of refugee programs within France itself, lessening the burden of those who'd lost everything due to the war or the blackout, and the DGSE and the Presidency had replied with attempted murder and kidnapping.

Frankly, she was glad the King was still hospitalized. If he'd been able to move at all, she had little doubts her country would be in cinders by now.

"Then you have betrayed your country?" asked the stony-faced general. His black, slicked-back hair was far less smooth than it'd been when the meeting had begun. Strands now hobbled over his face like errant antennae. "Sold your soul to the Northern King?"

"I am saving my country, in a far more efficient way than you," Gabrielle riposted with ease as she leaned back into her chair and draped one arm over its back. A sly, arrogant smile graced her beautiful features as she extended a palm-up hand to the general in a beckoning fashion. "Switch allegiances, General. Fight for the ETO, not the Northern Sun. We may yet be able to save the French Republic if you do."

"The ETO?" scoffed the Brigadier, sweeping his hand angrily. "Puppets of the North! We might as well kneel to the Northern throne!"

Gabrielle gazed at the Brigadier impassively and retracted her hand, keeping it lightly on her lap. "You seem to believe that you have a real choice in that," she noted idly, allowing a ghost of an amused smile to grace her lips. "How amusing. What exactly do you think will happen to you when we lose this fight?"

"_If_ we lose —"

"_When_." Gabrielle cut off the Brigadier, that sly smile still fixed. "Be realistic, _mes généraux._ We won't last in this fight for...what was that report?" she asked her subordinate unnecessarily. She knew the figure, she just wanted to make a point.

"Six months," the man supplied, a smirk on his face.

"_Six months_!" she mock exclaimed, putting up a hand to her mouth in a mocking gesture of a lady being truly affronted. "Shameful, isn't it?"

"You've made your point," the general sitting opposite her said flatly, raising a hand to prevent his subordinate from lashing out as he wished. "We know we are beaten," he acknowledged sternly, sending a quick glare at the Brigadier at his side to keep the man quiet. "That is why we came to you. _Rédemption_ and its forces have been amazingly left alone by the ETO's forces. Some regions have fallen much quicker than they should have, and we suspect you had a hand in coordinating their capture."

She stared at him impassively. "And just because of that, you throw yourself at the mercy of a woman such as I," she noted calmly, looking down her nose at him. "A woman your government labeled a terrorist and a murderess. For fighting for her kind."

"We've already apo—!" the Brigadier started, but was cut off by the General bringing up a hand and stopping him cold.

"No amount of apologies will ever be enough," he acknowledged again. Gabrielle still hated the man, but at least he had the moral fiber to admit his flaws. "I understand that. Many of us do. But our men do not deserve such a pointless death, or such a dishonorable defeat. Is there no other way to save France and its sons from such a fate? Must we bow our heads to the ETO?"

Gabrielle stared the General down long and hard. A part of her still believed France should fight to the bitter end. The "deal" she'd struck with the Northern Sun, while still incredibly lenient, nonetheless remained a sour point in her memories. No country ought to face its own destruction so passively. Even if the fight was doomed, there had to remain some honour in fighting on.

Yet, she could not ignore that there were thousands of lives of her own kind riding on this. Nevermind the French soldiers, or the general citizenry. She cared little for them — other than those who'd helped, that is — after what they'd done to her kind. However, if she truly wanted to help her oppressed brethren, she _needed_ to cooperate with the Northern Sun. She needed their resources to liberate her fellow mages and magical creatures.

If they'd had such resources from the beginning, after all, she might never have lost Fleur...

She shook her head slightly to suppress those thoughts. Fleur was gone. She'd made her peace with that. Her sister had been an incredible witch of unparalleled will. She'd been the first leader of Redemption, and had left it in her care.

So now she nodded at the General firmly.

"It is," she stated, without a trace of doubt in her voice. "The ETO has already promised leniency if the French people reject the sitting government and acknowledge the regency of the ETO over the French Republic."

"Then we are finished," the Brigadier lamented, running both hands over his scalp in frustration. "Once the ETO gets their hands on the Republic, they will never let go. We will bow to another King again!"

"We have no choice," the General stated stonily, slowly getting up from his seat and nodding at Gabrielle. "Very well, _mademoiselle Pucelle_. I will bring your words to my colleagues, though I think we will all be agreeing on this course of action. The President and his allies has gone too far. I am confident that the the Second Army will be switching allegiances within the week."

Gabrielle nodded as she remained firmly seated, her arms crossed to preempt any attempt at shaking her hand. They may be working together now, but she still hated their guts. "You've made a good choice, _mon général_."

The man silently put on his cap before tugging it down, the motion hiding his eyes from her sight. "_Ce n'est pas comme si nous avions vraiment le choix, ma chère mademoiselle Pucelle.__" _he told her with resigned despondency. "_Bonsoir__."_

Gabrielle watched silently as the man left, throwing a sly smile at the Brigadier as he followed his superior officer, knowing it would enrage him a bit. Such fun to tease these men. Once the door closed, however, she glared right at the spot the general had been sitting at.

"_Ma chère_?" she echoed irritably, biting down on her thumb. "_Salaud de merde!_" she cursed him. The bastard had the _gall_ to talk to her like an equal? To try and pass off an air of politeness, after what his silence had done to her people?

"_C'était vraiment nécessaire de les énerver comme ça?_" her subordinate asked her, reverting to their native French now that the two officers were gone. He knew his leader had only done so because she knew it would royally piss them off.

"_Oui__,_" she stated bluntly, raising her two legs from under the table and leaving them up on the table. Honestly, she'd been wanting to piss off the officers even more than she had, but business was business, and the SIS would've had her _hide_ if she'd passed up on a way to get a chunk of the French army to rise in revolt. "_Pierre, quelle est la situation en Lyon? Lavoisier a accepté de laisser entrer les Autrichiens?_"

The man shook his head. Jean Lavoisier, the leader of a local resistance cell in Lyon, had remained steadfast in his refusal to support the ETO to invade his country, despite Gabrielle's assurances that the invaders would show leniency towards their country. "_Pas encore._"

Gabrielle bit her thumb harder. Damn Lavoisier. She could sympathize with his desire to fight for the Republic — the President and those anti-mage assholes aside — but she also knew it was a pointless fight. Hell, even the _Army_ knew it was a pointless fight! Blacked out as they were, they had no way of hoping to defeat the Northern Sun and the ETO. As it stood, the only way to save the lives of their compatriots was to surrender to the inevitable.

So she could understand him...but she could no longer tolerate him. "_Son second, Durand, il est encore ouvert à notre offre?_"

The man silently nodded, prompting silence from Gabrielle.

"_C'est lamentable..._" she said with a sad sigh before nodding. "_Donne l'ordre._"

She knew she was condemning Lavoisier to a pointless death. She knew she'd made his second-in-command, a weasel of a man by the name of Jacques Durand, turn on him rather dishonorably. She knew she wasn't giving him a fair shot at honorably fighting her wish to replace him.

But right now, she couldn't. The ETO had been explicitly clear. The Austrians would march on Lyon, and they expected the resistance cells there to help coordinate the assault on the local garrison. Pity the Second Army wasn't in charge of that region...if they were, she could've saved the man's life.

"_Chef__!_"

Gabrielle hummed inquisitively as she glanced over her shoulder at the door behind her and her subordinate — the door that led down into their escape passage. A young woman — one of the mages in her organization, had burst in holding a piece of paper.

"_Marie,_" she greeted the woman with a raised eyebrow. "_Qu'est que c'est?_"

"SIS!" the young woman exclaimed breathlessly, holding out the paper.

Gabrielle was on her feet in an instant, snatching the paper away from her subordinate. Any communication from the SIS that didn't require her to meet in some location of their choosing meant something bad was happening and they required her services _now_.

And they usually — if not always — meant she had no choice in accepting the task.

Her eyes scanned the message before widening as she got to the meat of it. A group of Northern paratroopers, ambushed at Chiny? She'd never heard of the place, but according to the message, Redemption had a supply cache in neighbouring Martué. How the hell the SIS knew that, she had no idea. Supply cache locations were a strict secret within Redemption, so the fact that they knew that her group had weapons and other necessary supplies stored there was a blow to her.

"_Chiny...tu sait du lieu__?_" she asked Pierre. The man shrugged — no surprise there. "_On nous a besoin là. Rassemble tous les gars que tu peux dens Martué._" she ordered crisply. There was no refusing this — if the SIS was desperate enough to call on her to rescue _their_ troops, it meant they were likely the closest assets they could scramble.

"_Qu'est-ce qu'on va faire?_" Pierre asked curiously. He knew the moment Marie had said SIS that the situation was bad, but he wasn't going to jump in head first into a fight without at least knowing what he was jumping into.

Gabrielle gave him a smirk. "_Êtres des putains d'héros__._"

* * *

_**Post-AN:** Translated dialogue for the last scene:_

_"Ce que vous nous demandez...c'est impossible!" - "What you're asking...it's impossible!"_

_"Ce n'est pas comme si nous avions vraiment le choix, ma chère mademoiselle Pucelle...Bonsoir" - "It's not like we have a choice, my dear Miss Pucelle...Good Evening."_

_"Ma chère?...Salaud de merde!" - "My dear?...Fucking asshole!"_

_"C'était vraiment nécessaire de les énerver comme ça?" - "Was it really necessary to piss them off like that?"_

_"Oui...Pierre, quelle est la situation en Lyon? Lavoisier a accepté de laisser entrer les Autrichiens?" - "Yes...Pierre, what is the situation in Lyon? Has Lavoisier agreed to let in the Austrians?"_

_"Pas encore." - "Not yet."_

_"Son second, Durand, il est encore ouvert à notre offre?" - "His second, Durand, is he still open to our offer?"_

_"C'est lamentable...Done l'ordre." - "It's lamentable...give the order."_

_"Chef!" - "Chief/Boss/Leader!"_

_"Qu'est que c'est?" - "What is it?"_

_"Chiny...tu sait du lieu?...On nous a besoin là. Rassemble tous les gars que tu peux dens Martué." - "Chiny...you know the place?...We're needed there. Gather as many of the guys as you can in Martué."  
_

_"Qu'est-ce qu'on va faire?" - "What are we going to do?"_

_"Êtres des putains d'héros." - "Be big damn heroes."_


	29. Chapter XXIX: Children of HAVOC

_**AN: **Sorry for the wait! Finishing up the trio of chapters focusing on Task Force Guardian, I present to you Children of HAVOC!_

_From here on out, the Northern Sun - and its ETO allies - will be reeling from the consequences of the very near-catastrophe that Guardian was able to prevent. I didn't include them in -this- chapter because...well, it'd be crazy long, then. Instead, have fun checking out snippets of the life of a soldier who went through Project HAVOC._

_Also, hurrah for us for having reached the 1,000 review landmark! Thanks to andrewjeeves, and all of you, really, for having expressed such support for this story! And again, thanks to Ray for being an awesome source of information! :D_

* * *

_**Fort Davenport, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, February 25, 2015**__**...**_

Ford wasn't exactly sure _what_ it was that had possessed him to do this, but he was sure as hell having second thoughts now.

"Private, would you like to tell me why the _hell_ your service weapon isn't clean?"

Ford swallowed instinctively. He thought he _had_ cleaned the damn thing, but apparently a single millimeter of dirt was enough to catch the Drill Sergeant's eye. Considering the type of guy the man was, Ford knew honest admission of error was the best way to go...or else he'd be doing the trail run again.

"No excuse, sarge!"

The grizzled veteran looked him up and down for a moment before handing the rifle back in seeming disgust. "Weekend pass revoked, Private. Next time, try to take as much time caring for your weapon as you seem to care about looking good for the women," he chastised Ford before moving on to the man to Ford's left.

Weekend pass revoked? Ford almost sighed in relief — compared to the many other, much more creative ways of punishing him for his carelessness, having his pass revoked was a slap on the wrist. It could've been so much worse...latrine duty, for instance. Last time he'd done that, he'd been unable to get the smell out of his uniform for days.

Four weeks, though.

Four weeks since he'd enlisted and been shipped out to Basic Training, where apparently the Drill Instructors enjoyed beating the "kinks," as they'd called it, out of their routines. Take more than a minute to wash up? Push-ups on the ground. Ran out of step while in formation? Do laps. Ate slower than the rest of your platoon? God help you then, because you were going to puke it all out by the time they were through with you.

Even so, he stayed put. Stayed the course of his decision to enlist in the Northern Armed Forces. What choice did he have, really? The Civil War had been for a little over three years now, but reconstruction was hardly over. Much of the southern regions of the British Isles remained impoverished due to the heavy fighting that had occurred there in the later days of the war. Without ready access to magic, the vast resources that the North had channeled into their war effort, and the fact that much of the south's population had fled north in the hopes of escaping from the tyranny of the Chiefs, the south had remained...broken, for lack of a better word.

It was a story he was all too familiar with, considering his family had remained in the south throughout the war. His mum and dad had refused to get involved with either side, and had expressly forbidden him from enlisting. When the conscription officers came to his house for him, they had hidden him away, telling the men he'd fled a few days ago. It was a small village anyway, so once the officers had rounded up whomever they could get their hands on, they never returned.

Staying in the south, however, was a black spot for many employers following the war's end. Questions of loyalty continuously sprung up, and he knew of more than a few families who'd had every breadwinner fired for the flimsiest of excuses once it came up that they had never tried to help the Northern Territories in fighting against the Chiefs.

Not that Ford _blamed_ the Northern government for that. It wasn't like every bureaucrat in Liverpool continuously monitored the employment lists and had each neutral or anti-northern person fired from their job for not supporting their war effort. In his dad's case, the day manager of the bank he'd worked at had used the excuse that he'd been taking far too much time during his breaks and thus showed "irresponsible behaviour." Fortunately, the branch head knew his dad and had overruled the decision.

His mum, however, hadn't been as lucky.

A schoolteacher, her strict standards had caused more than a couple of kids in her classes to fail. A few of these kids' parents, in a fit of resentment, accused her of purposely failing the children because they'd all come from pro-Northern families. The charge was ridiculous, naturally, but faced with the fact that she and his father had both declared neutrality, and the fact that her class averages did tend to score barley over the passing grades — with most of her pupils coming from pro-Northern families — she was fired from her job.

That was seven weeks ago.

It helped prompt his decision to enlist, however. Himself being 22 years old, and unable to find a job, Ford had decided to bow to the inevitable and declare his intention to enlist. Even if he never saw combat, even if he didn't amount to a glorious hero, his regular paychecks and his absence from his home would allow his parents to maintain a more comfortable budget.

"Rusty bayonet, Creedy!" barked the Drill Instructor. "Weekend pass revoked!"

Ford just hoped he hadn't made a mistake joining up.

* * *

_**Operation GUARDIAN, Chiny, Belgium, April 17, 2017...**_

"Take cover!"

Ford watched, his teeth grit and his lips curled into an angry snarl, as the mortar shell detonated right where Alice had been standing moments ago, carving another hole into the once idyllic countryside forest.

"Mac, we need that shield up _yesterday_, fucking damnit!" he shouted into his helmet-integrated comm unit. He was _not _happy. Meteor's wound had been somewhat severe, so Alice had been forced to use precious first aid supplies to both stop the bleeding and bring the mage back from unconsciousness. They needed her right now — on their own, they'd be dead in minutes from the mortar pounding they were receiving.

"_Belt change!_" Buchanan cut in, the sound of their LMG's continuous fire ceasing for a moment as she and Bergstein manhandled the new belt of ammunition into its proper locking position within the gun. "_Firing!_"

Again, the soothing sound of the LMG firing reached their ears. In the middle of the sort of pitched firefight they were now facing, it was more welcome than anything short of reinforcements.

Needless to say, Team One's rescue had gone somewhat awry. Rather quickly, too.

Not for lack of trying, mind. After having told their evac chopper to bail out with their prisoners, Team Two had basically flanked the human wave going for Team One and shot their way through to their comrades. While the flanking advantage was now gone, at least they could now level far more firepower at the advancing enemy than they could've by splitting the teams — hell, the way Buchanan had reported it, in between impressive expletives, she and Bergstein would've been overrun if Ford had led the rescue when he did.

Successfully performing the rescue, however, now meant _they_ needed rescue. Delta Section may have been reunited at long last, but now they were in danger of being overrun as a group.

That was unacceptable.

"_Meteor's still out of it, sarge!_" Liam reported. Ford looked over to where his friend was standing over the hunched over form of Meteor, who looked like she was about to throw up. Her smooth, bob-cut hair worked as a makeshift curtain for her face, its once-silky strands bunched up in dirty knots. Hell, Ford was surprised to see even a batch of navy blue on her uniform's greatcoat, considering how much of a mess she'd been in when he'd led his team to Team One's rescue. "_Doc's happy pills don't seem to be doing much for her!_"

"_What were the fucking odds she'd be the one to get hit hardest by the side-effects?_" Alice lamented angrily as she unloaded her weapon into an unfortunate pair of DGSE plainclothes agents who'd been attempting to rush their position. She expertly reached into her pack and glanced over to Liam. "_Here!_" she called out before tossing a can to the Corporal, who caught it neatly. "_Ginger sticks! Have her eat one!_"

"_Why the fuck do you carry around ginger sticks?!_" King asked incredulously as he leaned out of cover and dropped another enemy combatant. "_I thought you hated that shite!_"

"_Whatever fucking works, King!_" Alice stated simply before unhooking a grenade, arming it, and tossing it around her tree cover, right at an oncoming group of enemy soldiers — uniformed, this time. "_Fire in the hole!_"

A large explosion heralded Alice's successful use of her ordinance, making Ford smile grimly as he expertly took down one enemy footsoldier after another with well-placed shots. He'd never really recognized his HAVOC procedure as being really all that significant up to this point, truth be told...but now he could see some significant improvements that he'd previously might have taken for granted.

The eggheads had called it gene therapy. He wasn't quite sure what that wholly implied — science had never really been his forte in school — but from what they'd told him when he'd volunteered for the therapy, it would gradually make him stronger, faster, and smarter. While he didn't feel _particularly_ smarter, he realized he'd been recently able to do his planning with much more critical thinking, arriving at conclusions he hadn't realized he'd been able to reach. His reflexes, already quite good, were just a fraction of a second faster — and in combat, that meant the difference between a bullet in the head, and a Scarlet Star — the Northern Sun's equivalent to the Yanks' Purple Heart.

Either way, the benefits were there, and now that he and his men were sorely outnumbered and outgunned, he could appreciate them a whole lot more.

"_Sir, recommend we attempt exfil via the cars down south!_" Liam suggested as pumped his rifle's underslung grenade launcher, stepped out from cover, and fired a round before returning to his original place just in time to avoid a few potshots. "_The longer we stay here, the longer they have to outflank us!_"

The idea was sound in theory, but not in practice.

Carrying one wounded mage, along with their own armoured suits, would mean an intolerably slow pace, during which the enemy, unhindered by such things, could just press on their retreating backs until the team caved in and were overrun. Moving west or north presented the same problem. Going east, right towards the enemy, amounted to pure suicide.

And judging from that blast he'd felt practically rock his teeth out of place earlier on, the bridge that led out of Chiny was probably history. He only hoped none of First Platoon had been on said bridge when the thing fell.

Which effectively meant they were on their own right now. Ford knew it; Liam knew it. Hell, they _all_ fucking knew it. There was just no getting around how utterly FUBAR the situation was. Of course, Castle Base had promised them air support, and two Typhoons had indeed laid waste to a decent chunk of the enemy forces...but it wasn't enough. They could've sent in attack helicopters, but that risked more of them getting shot down.

And by now, there was no way to do strafing runs — much less bombing runs — without possibly nicking his own team. The enemy was just too close, even if they popped flares or activated strobes.

Which left Meteor.

To be honest, he really hated relying on the bitch to find a way out for his team, but the truth was that they had no choice. A Military Mage, up and running, could easily turn the tides right now — perhaps even push back the enemy far enough for the Typhoons to come back and finish off the fucking arseholes.

The problem was that she was in _no_ condition to practice magic right now. Honestly, if she tried, Ford might've shot her to prevent her from killing them all. Between the nausea and the blood loss, a miss-flick of her wrist or wand or whatever could end up killing everyone close to her. And he'd be damned if he let friendly fire be the reason he ended up in a goddamned coffin.

"Castle Base, this is Guardian Seven," he radioed HQ, knowing they were the only ones who had an approximate of the full picture of their current situation. "We're flying blind here, mates! Please advise!"

"_Guardian Seven, please note that enemy forces continue converging on your position from north and east,_" he heard the reply rather quickly. "_First Platoon's advance has stalled due to the loss of the bridge. You are on your own, Guardian._"

"Tell me something I don't fucking know..." Ford muttered under his breath as he raised his rifle and shot another of his attackers with two precise hits to the face. "Doc, what's the status on Meteor?"

He saw Alice slide into position next to the still-kneeling Meteor. Judging from the bag of ginger sticks on the ground, she'd at least gotten a few into her system. However, Alice's prompt shake of her helmetted head shot down his hopes of carrying through Liam's proposal.

"_She's in no condition to move, sarge,_" Alice informed him plainly, raising her rifle with one hand and firing a blind burst at another enemy soldier, who barely dodged being made into another corpse. An effort sadly invalidated when Liam leaned out of his cover and finished him off. "_She's too weak from the nausea and the blood loss. We'd have to carry her._"

And there was no way they would be able to outrun the DGSE's forces while carrying the mage around. It didn't matter _what_ direction they went in, they were hosed.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

* * *

_**Fort Davenport, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, March 3, 2015...**_

"Oi, Ford, letter for ya!"

Ford cranked up his head from his pillow, seeing one of his barracks-mates come in with an armful of letters and a package or two tucked underneath his arms. Reacting quickly, he caught the flung letter in question mid-air, giving the man a lazy salute in thanks as he passed by.

Holding it up above his head, Ford narrowed his eyes as he spied the unfamiliar writing style on the front. Neither his mum or dad wrote this way, and his friends from the village were so few and so out of touch that he doubted any of them would've written to him. If they had and were asking him for monetary favours, they'd be shit out of luck, considering he sent everything back home, minus a small allowance for himself, of course.

"Who's it from?" asked the guy in the bunk next to his. Mac...something. Ford didn't really know, since he was a brand new transfer into their troop. Arrived not two days ago, in fact. Ford wondered why that was — after all, most transfers happened _after_ Basic Training, not _during_...unless there were outstanding circumstances, like disciplinary action or protective measures.

"What's it to you?" Ford asked a little belligerently. Who was this newbie to ask him about his personal life?

"Just being polite, mate," his bunk neighbour assured him with a slick smile. Popular with the ladies, no doubt. Ford didn't quite like those types...always too slick to be sure if they were being genuine or working an angle.

"Dunno," Ford answered him rather belatedly as he flipped the envelope in his hand over and over again. Eventually, he got bored of doing this and simply tore it open, leaving the shredded envelope on his stomach while he unfolded and read the letter. Soon, he was chuckling. "Oh, shite..."

"Bad news?" asked his neighbour.

"Some bird I met last weekend," Ford said simply, folding the letter again and putting it back in its envelope. "Seemed to think we weren't going to work out and needed to let me down easy."

His neighbour laughed. "Let me guess," he said with a grin. "You thought it was a one-night stand."

"Of course it bloody was!" Ford answered, still shaking his head in amused disbelief. "Christ, I didn't think she'd get the wrong impression like that!"

"Gotta be careful what you tell them, aye?" his bunk neighbour noted sagely, still looking rather amused. "And how you tell them, come to think of it. I remember this one lass who thought we'd be getting married after I kneeled down to pick up a pound off the street while she'd turned around!"

Ford laughed at that. Sitting up on his bed, he deftly turned to meet his neighbour and struck out a hand, having a good feeling about this guy. He hadn't noticed him before too much, but the guy had a good personality about him, and they did seem to hit it off quite nicely. Time alone would tell whether that would last or not, but Ford felt that right now, the guy was alright.

"Ford. John Ford," he introduced himself. "Private First Class."

His neighbour grinned and reached out, grasping Ford's extended hand and giving it a firm shake. "Liam. Liam McNamara. But everyone calls me Mac. Private Third Class."

"You smoke, Liam?" asked Ford as he fished out a pack from his pocket and held it out in offering.

"I do now, it seems," Liam acknowledged with a cheeky grin as he plucked one out and held it out for Ford to light up.

Ford chuckled before lighting up his own cigarette. "Liam," he said as he held the cigarette between his lips. "I do believe this is the start of a wonderful friendship."

"Speak for yourself," Liam said with a grin. "I only cosied up to you for the fags."

Both men laughed.

* * *

_**Operation GUARDIAN, Chiny, Belgium, April 17, 2017...**_

"LIAM!" Ford all but shouted towards his friend, ignoring the fact that his built-in helmet radio would've done the exact same job without the need for upper decibels. "Get the LT further into the forest! Find us some better cover!"

"_Understood, sarge!_" Liam acknowledged as he grasped Meteor by her uniform and hefted her up onto her feet. "_Come on, Lieutenant!_"

Ford then summoned the rest of his section's attention by making his icon blink numerous times on their visor's HUDs. "Covering fire for Mac and the LT!" he barked, even as he brought up his weapon and discharged a continuous burst of fire in the enemy's general direction. Ideally, every bullet counted, but in the situation they were in, the ability to maneuver free of enemy fire was invaluable, so they had to sacrifice said precious bullets for that luxury.

"_Sarge, flanking action up north!_" Alice informed him then, almost causing him to snap his head that way to check things out for himself. A reflex he couldn't afford to indulge in right now, or else he'd be biting a bullet from the front.

"What's the headcount, Doc?" he asked instead, resuming a more marksmanship style of fire. Three soldiers fell to the ground, clutching fatal wounds to their bodies.

"_Eyes on ten plus, probably trying to surround us!_"

"Spectre, King, redeploy north and counter the flanking action!" Ford made the snap decision, leaning out of cover for a moment to take down another soldier. His shot barely missed, instead carving out the side of the tree the fortunate DGSE agent had hidden behind.

"Ammo count!" he then promptly ordered, taking advantage of the enemy's blind fire to check his magazine. Four more shots and he'd have to switch magazines. A quick feel of his pack told him he still had three left. Hardly enough to hold off the enemy for very long.

"_Two mags!_" Liam answered almost immediately. "_King's got two left as well!_"

"_Six mags,_" Petrovsky weighed in, to no one's surprise. The marksman hardly ever wasted a bullet, and they were sure most of the bodies littering the ground were probably his kills.

"_Three mags,_" Alice reported in before firing another burst and discharging her spent magazine. "_Make that two._"

"_Still got four belts, sarge!_" Bergstein reported. "_And all ten of our mags!_"

"_Fuck yeah we do!_" added in Buchanan amidst the raucous of her machine gun going wild on the enemy. "_And Bear's got the good explody stuff all set to go!_"

That was good news, at least. Even though most of the team was running low on ammo, at least Bergstein still had enough explosives to level a good chunk of the forest. It'd be far more useful if they had a position from which they could then set up the explosives in an attempt to create a defensible perimeter, but so far the flatlands the forest occupied were pretty much screwing them over in that sense.

"_Sergeant..._"

Ford's ears pricked up at the unfamiliar voice. It had to be Meteor. Staying firmly behind cover, he keyed into the woman's comm frequency. "Lieutenant, is everything alright?" he asked a little worriedly. He might not like the woman, but she was a part of his unit right now, and he wasn't about to let _anyone_ on his team die out here in the middle of nowhere.

"_Sergeant...I just... _" she began slowly, her voice breaking at times, no doubt a mixture of pain and shock. "_...how can I help?_"

Apparating the team out would've been a great way, but Ford knew enough about magic in general to know that mages who tried to side-Apparate more than a single companion tended to take their lives in their own hands. Not worth the risk.

On the other hand, he'd seen Neville and other Military Mages work wonders with what they called Transfiguration magic. _That_ could be useful right now. Not to mention having something to hold back the goddamn mortars that were still falling on their heads!

"Liam, is the Lieutenant in any condition to help right now?" he asked his second in command, leaning out of cover to shoot another combatant, this one flipping onto his back by the sudden impact of the bullet to his forehead as he tried a rush. Ford had to give the guy kudos...not many would've been ballsy enough to try a headlong charge into enemy fire.

"_...Maybe,_" Liam answered him warily. "_She's back on her feet, but she still looks like shite._"

"_You're no eye candy yourself, Corporal,_" Meteor snapped over the comm, apparently cogent enough to follow their chatter, despite the ongoing firefight. "_I'll survive. What do you need me to do, sergeant?_"

"Well, we could use some cover, ma'am," Ford informed her, noting that Alice had been forced to move again as her previous position was again shelled into a small crater. "And getting those mortars off our backs would be wonderful, really."

"_One or the other, sergeant,_" Meteor stated bluntly, her deep, pained breaths punctuating each word. "_I don't think I've got much more in me._"

Ford knew he had very little time to make his pick, so he quickly ran through the possible scenarios. If he asked for cover, Meteor would likely set up barricades of some sort to allow his team to set up a fortified position of sorts. That would certainly stem the enemy onslaught, but it would also guarantee that the enemy mortar teams would zero in on their positions in a heartbeat.

However, if he asked for a shield to cover his men from the mortar attacks, then the enemy assault would remain unchecked, but at least they wouldn't have to keep running from place to place in order to avoid death from above. Realistically, they could handle the enemy troops, and he had a few ideas about using their explosive equipment to give the team a fighting chance.

Neither choice was ultimately very good, but he knew he had to make one anyway.

"Shield," he stated promptly, quickly keying in the whole team into his comm frequency. "Set up a shield, Lieutenant. No more running, we stand and fight."

* * *

_**Fort Davenport, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, June 13, 2015...**_

Ford dodged the knife swipe by the edge of his teeth, quickly bringing up a forearm to keep the swung arm at bay while delivering a quick punch to his opponent's ribs, designed to knock his foe off balance.

It worked. His opponent flinched forward, allowing Ford to sweep their legs from under, soon resulting in him pinning his foe to the mat.

Clapping soon followed.

"Nicely done, corporal," Drill Instructor Quinn commended him as he watched the newly promoted Corporal rise to his feet, sweat permeating the front and back of his shirt. Without a word of acknowledgement of the congratulations, Ford extended his hand to his defeated sparring partner and helped him up.

"Thank you, sir," Ford then said, turning to his instructor and nodding in appreciation. As he and his partner moved off the mat, he idly noted that the Drill Instructor had already moved on, forcing another pair to spar for the group's benefit. This way, they could see and analyse each others' weaknesses, so they could, as a group, work on making each other better.

Ford, however, kept his attention on his sparring partner. The man was a beast. Easily taller than him by two heads, at least. Built like a tank, too, if the pain coming from his fists were anything to go by — every hit had felt like punching solid steel. And the worst of all? He was quick. Despite his hulking frame, Ford had barely managed to keep the worst of the guy at bay, resorting to using even faster reflexes and cleverness to defeat his opponent. A straight up fight would've left him undoubtedly nursing a concussion.

Returning to his spot by Liam, he quietly watched as the hulking man-beast went to the other side of the audience and quietly watched the next fight. Ford didn't really pay attention to it, however, since he already knew pretty much how it was going to end up.

"You cost me ten quid, you know," he heard Liam mutter at him by his side. The half-Irishman didn't look irritated at all, despite his words. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying the brutal spectacle before him. "I was sure that boy would kick your arse."

"Your faith in me is _inspiring_, Liam," Ford muttered back sarcastically. "I didn't make corporal on my good looks, y'know."

"No, you got there all on your own," Liam conceded, cringing dramatically at the sight of one of the fighters getting decked on the chin. Predictably, the man fell to the mat in a daze, lucky to not have gone unconscious immediately. "Oh, that's going to suck in the morning."

"Who was that?" Ford asked then. Liam glanced at him for a moment before settling his gaze on the fight again. He knew that Ford wasn't asking about either of the current bout fighters. He wanted info on the guy who'd nearly kicked his ass.

"Fresh transfer from P Company," Liam informed him simply, referring to the army's formal penal training company. "Another upstanding citizen-recruit, courtesy of the justice system. Heard he beat a man half to death in Suffolk with his bare fists. It was either jail time or service; guess which one he picked?"

Ford frowned. He wasn't used to that aspect of the system yet. Back in his childhood, he remembered quite clearly that if you committed a crime, you went to jail, period. There were no "free passes" in the form of military service in exchange for eventual freedom. Such policies had long since been outlawed in the British nation.

But just as quickly, he had to remind himself that they weren't living in a British nation anymore. The Northern Sun was a different creature in every way that counted. Much of the British culture might have survived the transition, but the laws, the courts, the monarchy, and the _system_ had all changed. The House of Windsor had lost their throne for good, and the Northern Sun had swept the Isles with changes that could hardly be reversed without a good deal more bloodshed.

Blood no one was willing to shed. Too many had already died for control of the Isles. Too many neighbours had killed each other over allegiances. If the Northern Sun was the status quo now, then so be it.

That didn't mean he _liked_ having to share a unit with people with criminal records, however. How could he put his life in the hands of a man or woman who had broken the law? If the rule of law meant nothing to them, what guarantee was there that the Military Code of Conduct would? How could he be sure that when the chips were down these people would have his back in a firefight?

"You're talking about the Bear?" asked someone to Liam's left. Both men turned to see a petite woman looking at them somewhat critically. "Don't believe all of what haircut here _thinks_ he knows; Bear's a good man," she chided them both with a glare. "He beat that asshat for trying to hit a fucking kid! If you ask me, that twat should've had worse coming to him!"

Ford's eyebrows rose at the assertion, while Liam turned on the charm instantly and began trying to hit on her. To no avail, it seemed, because the slew of insults that soon poured forth from her mouth certainly made it clear what she thought of his advances. So much so that Ford couldn't help the grin that formed on his face, despite the fact that this lowly Private was haranguing a Corporal and Lance Corporal. She had spunk — he liked that. And if what she said about his opponent was true, then that Bear character was worth looking into.

"Interested in him, eh?" Liam noted after giving up on hitting on the pretty Private. "Do your parents know?"

Ford shoved Liam roughly. "Shut it," he said with a grin before settling into a frown as he gazed over at the man the Private had called Bear. "Still...the way he moved, the way he fought. That's no wild beast, Liam. That bloke knew exactly what he was doing."

Liam crossed his arms and smiled as he watched the ongoing match. "The best killers usually do."

* * *

_**Operation GUARDIAN, Chiny, Belgium, April 17, 2017...**_

"Bear! Use the explosives to dig us up some foxholes on our six!" Ford ordered as the team lost another three yards of terrain to their attackers.

Despite Meteor's shield making the enemy mortars pulverize themselves before impact, the problem that quickly arose from said scheme was that her exhaustion and injuries meant that she could only hold the shield up in a very small area, forcing the team to bunch together and allowing their enemy a _lot_ more terrain to use to flank them.

"_On, it, boss._" was Bear's prompt response as the hulking trooper got up from beside his partner, grabbed the satchel of explosives from behind, and sprung into action as he ran back past Liam and Meteor and began spreading out several pieces of C4 on the ground. Ford had known Bear long enough to know that the man handled explosives like an artist, quickly assembling each explosive before moving on to the next, until he'd set up a ring of them. It'd be big enough to provide makeshift cover to the entire team, but it was hardly Fort Knox. If the enemy really wanted to, they'd be able to overrun them anyway.

Or just wait until their bullets ran out.

"_C4 set, sarge. Fire in the hole,_" Bear stated simply as he retreated a safe distance before quickly activating the explosives.

A resounding blast nearly knocked Ford off his feet as Bear's expertly handled explosive ring tore apart the forest ground in a violent explosion. Even through the insulating cover of his full body armour, Ford could feel the heat rolling off his back as he squished himself against his tree cover, watching around the trunk as DGSE agents were blown back by the shockwave. For a moment, he wondered if perhaps Bear had overestimated the amount of explosives necessary.

"_Fuck __**me**__, Bear! How much did you bloody hell use?!_" King howled over the comm.

"_What's the matter, King? Can't handle a little heat?_" Bear retorted wryly. "_Sarge, the foxholes are ready to go!_"

Ford nodded behind his tree cover. "Alright. Guardian, fall back to the foxholes! Set up a defensive perimeter!" he ordered briskly before stepping out of cover, firing a couple of shots to make sure the DGSE troops kept their heads down, and ran back to where he'd ordered Bear to set up the defensive positions.

As expected, he was soon greeted by the sight of several holes in the ground — not too deep, but low enough to make sure his enemies had to get real close to get a good shot at him. Sliding into one, he quickly turned around and fired his weapon, nicking one DGSE agent in the throat while the others fell back. The mist of blood that erupted from the dead agent's throat almost sickened him.

Almost.

Peripherally, he noted that another of his team — Alice, judging from the IV numeral on her shoulder — had slid in next to him.

"_You alright, sarge? Anything hit?_" she asked quickly, already digging through her pack. Making rounds, no doubt.

"I'm fine," Ford told her simply before motioning towards Meteor, who was still cradling her injured arm, wincing at the pain. For a Military Mage, who often had their reputations bloated somewhat via a combination of empty boasting and government propaganda, Ford doubted she would've made a sterling example of the specialized killers right now. Not that he didn't sympathize — shot was shot, and it _always_ hurt like a bitch. If it didn't, it typically meant you were either paralyzed or dead.

Neither a good fate.

"See to the LT," he ordered her instead, motioning towards the wounded mage. "She's our best shot at getting out of here alive if First Platoon doesn't get their arses in gear!"

Alice nodded at him before pausing for a few moments, glancing over the ridge of the improvised foxhole, and then darting out towards Meteor, skillfully navigating the compact cluster of craters Bear's explosives had wrought.

Ford checked his mission clock. It was already nearing on 3:00 A.M., and the enemy hadn't lost their zeal to see his team dead and/or captured. Almost three hours of constant fighting and Guardian was nowhere closer to extraction, as far as he knew.

"_Sarge, I think the Frogs are pulling back for a breather,_" Liam informed him over the comm, prompting Ford to look over to his friend, who was lying in his crater right next to Meteor, as Ford had ordered. Ford could barely make out the top of Alice's helmet peeking over the ridge of the same foxhole. "_Think First Platoon's finally gotten over the river?_"

"Worth a shot finding out," Ford replied simply before switching channels and hailing Castle Base. "Castle Base, Castle Base, this is Task Force Guardian Actual. Enemy is disengaging from our position. Are the reinforcements finally here?"

There was a hiss of static for a moment, making him fear that perhaps their communications had been jammed — though, given the blackout, how the fuck would the French be able to do so? — before a familiar female voice answered his query.

"_My apologies, sergeant, that's a negative on the reinforcements,_" Agent Smith informed him. "_The DGSE blew the bridge and First Platoon's assault has come across heavy entrenched defenses. They're pulling back until we get a deployable bridge to their position._"

Ford swore under his breath. It just figured. "Copy that, ma'am. What about air support? We could pop flares now and mark our position for safe strafing runs." he pointed out as he glanced over his crater's ridgeline. Nothing. Not a single soul in sight. Probably fell back to reload and resupply, especially now that their mortars had been rendered useless by the overhead shield that Meteor had put up.

"_Sorry, sergeant, no can do. The Typhoons I sent your way are on their way back to the HMS Norfolk for resupply, and all other air assets in the region are already engaged in local operations..._" she told him sympathetically, which Ford supposed was sort of a plus. At least now she wasn't talking to him and his team as though they were a nuisance she had to tolerate. Barely. "_Wait...I think I can get a couple of Westlands to your position in roughly an hour. Can you hold out that long?_"

"Don't really have much of a choice, ma'am," he pointed out wryly as he ejected his rifle's clip, checked the remaining bullets, and slapped it right back in. "Any luck figuring where we can port out?"

"_The Ministry's working on it. They haven't had much luck, however. The amount of overlapping wards in the area is screwing with their sensors. Current estimates put a clear zone twenty klicks west. Maybe._"

Ford grimaced. There was no way they'd get there in one piece, or even alive. Between Meteor being wounded and the horde of DGSE agents chasing them, they'd be lucky to conduct a fighting retreat on their own for another five kilometers.

"Holding our ground it is, then," he noted with a rueful smile. "Many thanks, Castle Base. Let us know when we can get the hell out of here. Guardian Actual out." If he'd known how FUBAR this mission was going to get, he liked to think he'd have thought twice about volunteering his team for it.

Well, not really. It still felt good knowing he and his team had been responsible for saving someone as beloved as the Queen of the Northern Sun. Unlike her much more feared husband, Queen Elicia was known to oversee and promote practically every charity she could think of...when she wasn't being a mother or one of the lead scientists of the Northern Sun.

Now that he thought about it, did the woman have any flaws? She seemed oddly perfect, on paper, but Ford knew better than anyone else that appearances tended to mask a _lot_ of unseen issues. Maybe she was a drinker? Or a gambler! That'd be interesting.

Opening a channel to the rest of the team, he decided to bring the question up as a way to get their minds off their seemingly inevitable deaths. "Hey, what do you guys think Her Majesty does for fun?" he asked them cheekily. "I mean, woman that pretty, smart, _and_ nice...gotta have some vices, right?"

There was a stunned silence for a moment as his team digested what he'd asked. Was he _really_ going to try and entice them into trash talking the King's wife? Had Ford lost it?

"_Is this entirely appropriate, sarge?_" asked Liam, sounding very confused as he peeked his helmet's visor over his foxhole's ridge and eyed Ford. "_We __**are**__ kinda fucked right now, if you haven't noticed._"

"_Oh, put a fucking sock in it, Mac. We're all fucked anyway._" Buchanan interjected. "_Fuck it. I say she's into wild kinky sex._"

"_That ain't a vice in my book,_" King spoke up, the team pretty much able to _hear_ the grin on his face.

"You talking about your to-do list again, King?" Ford jibed. "We _all_ know there's no way you hooked up with that bird in Caen. No. Fucking. Way."

"_With all due respect, sarge, you all can suck it. Marianne was an un-fucking-believable shag and you're not taking that from me!_"

"_Unbelievable's the word, all right,_" Alice joined, giggling.

Ford joined in with his team's laughter over the comm, minus Petrovsky, who was probably eyeing their surroundings like a hawk. In fact, for as long as Ford had known him, he wasn't sure the man had ever done more than crack a barely noticeable smile. And with that polarized visor their helmets had, it was even more impossible to discern a shred of emotion in the man.

"You know you're all mad, right?" Meteor pointed out then, looking a little stunned at their cavalier attitude towards their shared predicament. "We're all in constant danger of being overrun, and you're cracking jokes like it's bloody happy hour at the pub!"

"With all due respect, ma'am," Ford said. "Better cracking jokes than panicking about our situation. Panic gets you killed. Cracking jokes keeps morale up."

"_Hey, you don't think that's it, right?_" Bergstein spoke up. "_With the Queen, I mean. Maybe she likes lowbrow humor!_"

"_Classy lady like her? I doubt it,_" Alice noted. "_I bet it's porn. She's been married...what? Five years? And only one kid? Either one of them's got their equipment busted, or they're both massively blue balled!_"

Again, laughter dominated the comm, minus Meteor, who just stared at her teammates as though they were crazy. In any other case, she would've been right, undoubtedly; citizens of the Northern Sun were encouraged not to disparage the Royal Family, and more than a few newspapers and magazines had been strong-armed into repealing any planned pieces that might've cast doubt on the Royal Family's ability to govern the nation. Military Mages in particular took their loyalty to the Royals incredibly seriously, given that the founder of their unit was, in fact, the King of the Northern Sun.

"_Scouting party. Twelve o'clock._"

Petrovsky's words cut through the laughter like a knife, prompting immediate silence throughout the whole team. Immediately, every weapon was back up, each trooper pressed hard against the slope of their makeshift foxholes as they faced Petrovsky's indicated area.

Sure enough, now that the laughter was gone, the sound of crunching branches and leafs made their way to the helmet's augmented audio receivers. By the sound of it, the enemy was maybe…a hundred meters away?

It was hard to tell. Between the failed mortar shells, his team's use of explosives to slow down the DGSE's pursuit, and the newly arrived rainfall, their vision was cut to shit.

"I can't get a visual," he informed his team. "Anyone got eyes on the bogeys?"

"_Shit, sarge, I can barely make out the LT's pretty face!_" King answered promptly. "_Rainfall's getting thick._"

"In your dreams, Private," Meteor told King sternly as she dragged herself over to Liam's side on the slope of the crater and peered over the edge. "Sorry, sergeant; I can't see anything."

"_Ditto, sarge,_" Liam added in.

Buchanan and Bergstein both voiced similar sentiments, adding to Ford's growing unease. If at 100 meters they couldn't get eyes on the targets, then the DGSE had actually found a way to get around Guardian's superior armouring and weapons. All they had to do was wait until the rainfall turned _really_ bad, and then Guardian would be blind up to the point where they got overrun.

Ford looked around his visor's displayed information, desperately searching for some shred of provided information that he could use to locate his foe and give his team a fighting chance. Nothing. If only they'd had an IFF system in place, maybe coupled with a radar system, then perhaps he could've identified how many enemy footsoldiers were coming at them.

"Got any of that magic left in you, LT?" he asked Meteor, keeping his eyes firmly on the horizon around him. "Because a barricade right about now would be fantastic."

Meteor gave a pained grin as she cradled her wounded shoulder. "'Fraid not, sergeant," she said apologetically. "I'm all spent. Not even a spell to keep myself warm in this horrid weather. And if we don't get out of here soon, that ward I set up for the mortars is going to be too."

Shit. As if things weren't fucked enough already. If that ward came down, they were all dead. No question about it. All the DGSE would have to do is just surround Guardian in the cover of rainfall and sit back while their mortars butchered them.

"Spectre, what's the situation with that scouting party?" he asked, deciding to shove such fatalistic thinking aside. Maybe if the scouts remained in a single area, his own team could use the heavy rainfall to exfiltrate without the enemy being aware until it was way too late.

"_Holding steady at approximately one hundred meters._"

Good enough. Even though they had the advantage of mediocre cover, his team remained in a very precarious position – one that needed immediate rectification or else they'd all die.

"Bear, you still got some C4 on you?" he asked, affording his teammate a glance as he spoke.

"_Got enough to bring down a house, yeah. Got a plan, sarge?_"

Ford didn't want to know _why_ Bear had opted to bring so much explosive material with him on what was supposed to be a simple extraction mission, and so simply opted to not bring that up. "Alright. Team, we're sitting fucking ducks here. We will take advantage of the rainfall to retreat further into the forest and create a more defensible position. With any luck, those frog bastards won't notice till we're long gone. Ura?"

A chorus of assenting Ura's, along with Meteor's curt "understood," answered him. It was a hell of a gamble, Ford knew that, but it was also probably one of their only chances for survival. Besides, the deeper they went into the forest, the more likely they were to come across the wards' thresholds, possibly allowing them to get the hell out of this mess altogether.

He closed his eyes. To be frank, he was glad his military training had succeeded in teaching him how to manage his fear, or else he would've probably cracked by now. With all the close calls he'd lived through since the invasion of Caen, he was frankly stunned he hadn't yet snapped.

"Alright, on my mark," he told his team, even as green lights blinked to confirm their acquiescence. Meteor opted for a click of her comm, to his amusement. As much as they'd started off with mutual dislike, Meteor was at least now making the effort to fit in with the rest of the team's habits.

He eyed the area around his foxhole, frowning as the rainfall turned heavier. The mud would be a bitch to get through, but there was nothing for it. This really was their best shot at getting to a much more defensible location. If they waited around, the mortars would get them soon enough.

"Ready…" he mumbled into his comm, already positioning himself so he could push himself off into a quick, running start. Around him, he heard more than saw his team do the same.

"GO!"

* * *

_**Fort Independence, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, September 12, 2015…**_

"_Patient Charlie Kilo Three Zero Two, please proceed to Examination Room One._"

Ford watched impassively as a young, petite woman at the front of the line adjacent to his stepped forward and was soon out of sight as the heavy, reinforced steel doors slid close behind her. Directly in front of him, equally in his skivvies, was Liam, his well-toned body tense. Like his friend, Ford had no idea what was _really_ going to happen to them right now.

All he knew was that the very next day after finishing Basic Training, he and every successful soldier had been loaded onto trucks and sent to Fort Independence, where the _new_ Drill Instructors had taken them to task even _worse_ than the ones at Fort Davenport!

Amidst the screaming and cussing, he and his fellow soldiers had been pushed to their limits, then pushed even further. _Nothing_ was ever good enough for these instructors, who seemed to take personal offense whenever _any_ soldier took a break lasting more than five minutes. Leave passes were a thing of the past, too, as the Drill Instructors kept them working every day of every week – though, to let their muscles rest, their "off hours" simply became classroom time, where they had military tactics crammed into their heads.

Not everyone excelled at everything, however, but even so the Drill Instructors demanded perfection, and took every opportunity they had to make their charges strive for that further step. Those who didn't, whose will broke, were swiftly shipped out. Amongst the soldiers who remained at Independence, the rumour was that these washouts were either sent to the police, the Military Police, or were summarily discharged in the very worst of occasions.

Thankfully, for his continued stable state of mind, Liam hadn't been reassigned to another training group, allowing the two friends to commiserate with each other on their continued struggles. More than once the two had joked around with the idea of requesting a discharge after a bad day, but both men knew there was no way in _hell_ they were quitting this far in.

Silence permeated the waiting room where he and thirty-six other men and women, all in their military-issued skivvies, remained standing, each waiting for the final five alpha numeric symbols of their identification tags to be called out alongside instructions.

Whatever this was, all their hard work had led to this very moment.

The other soldiers in his group – and soldier they all were, since they'd _all_ passed Basic Training – had only heard rumours about what went on in Fort Independence. Stories ranging from botched scientific experimentation on humans to outright superhuman-creating gene therapy flew around the barracks at night, minutes before they all had to catch what little sleep the instructors would allow them this time around. Liam had taken great glee in spreading one of his own invention – that the military was putting together an army of cyborgs, and that the survival rate for the procedure was 1:3.

Preposterous, naturally, but amidst the other crazy tales spread around the barracks, it seemed mildly convincing.

Personally, Ford hadn't rightly cared about what the end product of this new phase of training was going to be – thinking more in the moment, he figured it was more important to focus on actually _getting there_. Now that he was, however, he regretted not paying attention to what the others had been gossiping about.

"_Patient Delta Bravo Four Four Three, please proceed to Examination Room Seven._" The synthesized female voice ordered then, catching Ford's attention. Without realizing he'd been holding his breath, he felt himself sigh in somewhat pointless relief. He knew he was going to be chosen eventually.

In fact, despite their serial numbers being non-sequential, the lines were advancing in perfect order. Therefore, by simple observation, he knew he'd be the…third in line to go in.

Even so, it was rather intimidating watching the man he'd once fought to a bare win back in Davenport walk through the opening before his hulking frame vanished from sight, much like what had happened to the petite woman.

What the hell were they doing to his fellow soldiers behind those reinforced doors? He hadn't heard screaming, so maybe it was just another health check-up – goodness knew he'd been through enough of those during his stay here in Independence for them to be part of his routine. Then again, his inability to discern via sound what was going on within the examination area could just be due to good soundproofing.

That just made him worry even more.

Backing out now was rightly impossible. The moment he'd arrived at Fort Independence, he'd had a form shoved into his hands by the "welcoming party" and been told to make a decision then and there. Sign the form and continue on with their military service, or refuse and be honourably discharged and returned to civilian life.

He hadn't scrutinized it all that much, to be honest. Faced with either rotting in cyclical unemployment and a sub-par life in the southern regions or charging head on against whatever the military threw at him, with the possibility of _perhaps_ having a better life ahead, he'd just signed the damn thing and given it right back. Liam had been more cautious, but had followed his lead soon after.

Now, however, he wondered if perhaps what he'd signed was a release form allowing the government to use him for some scientific experiment.

God, he hoped not. Going out on an operating table was no way for a soldier to finish his days. A gun in hand and a battlefield to be won was the way to go. Or, barring that, a bottle of the finest whiskey in one hand and a beautiful woman in the other.

"_Patient Lima Mike Eight Seven Six, please proceed to Examination Room Twenty-Three._" Ford tensed as Liam's number came up. In front of him, his friend tensed as well before taking a deliberate step forward and walking out the waiting room, soon shielded from view by the powerful steel doors.

His best friend, now gone to whatever fate awaited him and their like beyond the doors. What the _fuck_ was the military doing in there?

Ford couldn't help his mounting anxiety. Though as far as he knew, no one had ever died in Camp Independence, he still felt uneasy about the whole Frankenstein-y feel of this whole situation.

"..._Examination Room Thirteen._"

He blinked, not having noticed that another person had been called up already, this time from the line parallel to his. He mentally slapped himself back into reality, knowing he couldn't show any indications that he had second thoughts. Not this far in, and especially not if Liam had already mustered the nerve to carry through.

"Calm down," he heard a whisper from behind him so soft he nearly missed it. "Everything's going to be alright."

Instinctively, he turned his head to see who'd spoken — breaking a dozen rules in doing so — but he was quickly stopped by the same whispered voice. "Don't, or we'll both be in _gorram_ trouble."

John nodded briefly and kept his eyes fixed ahead. He didn't know who'd spoken, but felt a little grateful. Those simple encouraging words might not have dispelled his misgivings, but they did provide him with enough of a morale boost to keep himself together as he awaited his turn. All he could do was hope that the procedure went about as well for his mysterious benefactor as it hopefully did for him.

"_Patient Juliet Foxtrot One One Seven, please proceed to Examination Room Sixty Five._"

There it was. His turn now. Closing his eyes and breathing deep as the steel doors slid open to reveal the hallway he would walk down towards the examination rooms, he prepped himself mentally for whatever came ahead, and took his step forward.

The moment he was clear of the doors, he heard them slide shut behind him with a soft clang — something he hadn't noticed while in the room. Walking down the hallway, he noted the stark austerity of the steel grey walls. Other than the occasional plate lines that indicated where one piece of plating ended and another began, there was no visually distinguishing features on any part of his surroundings.

Not very comforting.

"_Congratulations, Patient Juliet Foxtrot One One Seven,_" the same synthetic voice from before spoke up then, appearing to come from everywhere at once. Frankly, it unnerved it. "_You have succeeded in passing the preliminary standards for all those candidates who wish to serve the Northern Sun through its armies._"

What the hell did that mean? Wasn't he _already_ a soldier? Without realizing it, he voiced these questions aloud, only to find that the voice didn't seem to respond to him at all. A recording?

"_Per Royal Decree Number Zero, Zero, Two, Six, Three, all members of the Northern Armed Forces must hereby adhere to a new set of base performance standards in order to judge adequacy for Phase Two of the new Militarization Doctrine,_" the voice continued without care for his questions, though it seemed to incidentally answer them. "_Per these new standards, you have been judged adequate to continue service within the Armed Forces, and are as such ready for Phase Two. Please enter the elevator and once again, congratulations._"

Doing as he was told, Ford pressed the call button for the elevator, expecting it to take at least a few seconds to get to him. After all, it hadn't been that long ago since the other candidate had gone ahead. To his surprise, though, it was already there, waiting for him. With some trepidation, he entered the elevator and before he could fully turn to press the adequate floor button, the doors shut behind him and the elevator began to move, causing him to stumble a little bit.

The trip didn't last more than a few seconds, and soon the doors slid open to reveal a large, open room with many cubicle-like partitions set up in neat rows. He could hear nothing of what went on within any of them, but did note that orderlies in scrubs came in and out of these with some regularity. None of them even so much as turned to acknowledge him.

Entering the room, again with some trepidation, he walked down the middle of the area, a little self-conscious now that he remembered that he was still in his skivvies, while male and female orderlies bustled about him without taking notice. Fighting down a blush, he kept his eyes fixed on the corners of each partition walls, where a large number had been affixed to denote which examination room it was.

Sixty-Three...Sixty-Four...ah, Sixty-Five.

Stepping up to the plastic sheet that passed for a door, he gingerly brushed it aside as he stepped into the cubicle, instantly aware of the powerful smell of disinfectant — how had he _not_ noticed that before? — and the _too _clean operating table. A rather large assortment of medical staffers welcomed him with absolute silence. One of them merely swept their hand towards the table, in a rather obvious silent order to lay down and let them get to work.

Well, if his misgivings had been mild before, they were on full-on red alert _now_. This whole setup looked like something right out of a bad horror flick! _Fuck that_ if they thought he was going to just let a bunch of strangers treat him like a practice corpse!

One of the staffers seemed to notice how tense he'd become, because she slowly dropped her surgical mask and gently smiled at him. "Calm down, soldier," she told him in a blatant attempt at calming him down. "We're not going to kill you."

He could see, and finally _hear_, a few of the staffers shake in suppressed laughter. So they thought this was funny, did they? Maybe a good ass kicking would teach them a thing or two about playing around with a trained killer.

"What's going to happen to me?" he asked instead, opting _not_ to piss off the guys who'd have his life in their hands very, very soon.

The female staffer smiled toothily. "We're going to make you _better_, soldier," she stated simply. "The very best we can make you."

And suddenly, that cyborg idea Liam had floated around before didn't seem so crazy after all.

* * *

_**Operation GUARDIAN, Chiny, Belgium, April 17, 2017...**_

The very best they could make him.

Ford remembered those words now, after having pushed aside the memories of his time at Fort Independence for so long. He hadn't been hurt, nor had he been tortured or anything like that...but even so, what Phase Two had done to him, once he understood the ramifications of it, had not sat well with him.

Augmenting humans at a genetic level, the military called it. Humans playing God, is what he called it.

Even worse, the military wasn't using the procedure to wipe out diseases or anything of the sort. They were just making their soldiers deadlier. Entire generations of Northern children would now be born with the right genes to be natural born killers.

Because _that_ never backfired, right?

Even so, he had to live with his Phase Two genetic remodelling. A house with a lawn, picket fence, and a family was still on his bucket list, so he'd have to find a way to help whatever children he had — if he lived long enough to have any, given his team's current situation — channel those genetic tendencies into something worthwhile.

First things first, however.

Ford brought up his rifle and slammed it into the face of one of the DGSE's multitude of agents that were now attempting to swarm his team, having finally found out Guardian's subterfuge after about two hours of waiting around for the rain to make the Northern soldiers miserable. By then, Ford had moved the entire team deeper into the forest, until at last they found an area that _wasn't_ fucking flatlands.

Perched atop a small incline, with a rather impressive rock outcropping serving their rear, Ford's team had finally found their defensive position. It did sort of make the situation feel like they had their backs against a wall — quite literally, in fact — but at the very least they had the time to carve out deeper trenches to keep themselves as out of sight as they possibly could while the DGSE dicked around their old campsite.

It took a further hour for the DGSE to find them — made horribly worse by the fact that the pair of Westland Lynxes Agent Smith had promised had finally shown up and torn a new asshole in the enemy assault before having to bug out — but when they did, Ford could tell the Frogs were pissed as fuck. Wave after wave of their men attempted to assault and overrun their position, without much luck. Not that they tried to emulate Stalin's human wave tactics, either — from high up on his tree perch, Petrovsky was forced to put down more than a few flanking attempts by himself while the rest of the team kept the front secure.

So once again, Guardian was cornered. They put up an excellent fight, no doubt about it, but Ford was quickly running out of tricks — especially now that ammunition was running low throughout the team.

Looking down at his stunned opponent, Ford readied his rifle and stabbed its bayonet blade into the man's chest twice before pulling out and returning the enemy's fire with his own. Alongside him, Liam had been forced to discard his helmet, as a stray bullet had managed to crack his visor — albeit not penetrate. Out of the entire team, he was now the most vulnerable.

Though, even Meteor, whose injury was now risking gangrene due to the rather unhygienic situation she was in, had pulled out her sidearm and was exchanging fire with the enemy, her defiance in the face of overwhelming odds rather...respectable.

"_Reloading!_" Buchanan warned then, the LMG slowly sputtering to a halt. "_One more belt before we're out, sarge!_"

If that was true, then this was it. With only a few spare magazines spread out throughout the team, there was no way they'd be able to survive without the LMG keeping the bulk of the enemy off their asses.

"Guardian!" he barked over the comm and external speakers, for Liam's sake. "Prepare to defend yourselves! One last time!"

"_Ura!_"

There was really nothing for it. Guardian had done its job, fought with all the heroism anyone could ask for, and were simply facing the consequences of their desire to leave no man behind. All they could do now was ensure that none of their equipment ever made it into enemy hands intact.

"Bear, set up whatever C4 you have left and rig it to our heartbeat monitors," he ordered grimly. "If we go down, we're not letting those fucking frogs make off with our equipment."

"_Ura, sarge,_" Bergstein acknowledged just as grimly, already digging out the remaining explosives from his pack. "_I'll rig it up to a dead man switch in case we're wounded but alive._"

Ford nodded silently as he settled against the ridge of the makeshift trench. Only Petrovsky wouldn't be affected by the blast, so that needed taking care of too. "Spectre, the frogs cannot get their hands on your equipment. Understand?"

"_Understood._"

There was no real need to wonder if Petrovsky would follow through or not — out of the entire team, he was the only one who never seemed to question orders, and his warrior's pride would probably satisfied if he took out a few enemy troopers with his death.

"_Enemy forces massing at two hundred meters, twelve o'clock._"

Every man and woman in that trench tensed now, their rifles and sole LMG ready to fire. None did, however, as they knew that a kill shot was absolutely necessary now that they were running on fumes.

"Guardian," Ford stated simply. "It's been an honour."

"King and Sun, John." Liam told him with a smile as he leaned into his scope.

"_Ura. Let's kill us some fucking sons of bitches!_" added in Buchanan as she fist bumped Bergstein.

Alice, for her part, went down the line offering the others morphine syrettes and bandages. If they were going to go down fighting, then the least they could do was stay on long enough to dent the DGSE's numbers even more substantially than they already had.

"_Always knew you'd get us killed someday, sarge,_" King noted humorously as he shifted his position on the ridgeline of the makeshift trench. "_Damn shame I'll never get to savour all the birds Paris has to offer._"

Ford chuckled. "As if you'd have gotten that lucky, King."

"_Here they come._" Petrovsky warned then.

Ford waited a beat before keying in his loudspeakers. "Here we go, Guardian! For the King and Sun! URA!"

"_URA!_" his team's loudspeakers blared as they all opened fire the moment the DGSE wave came into view. The staccato of their gunfire drowned out whatever the DGSE may have tried to cry out as their counter-cry, much of the first line of attackers dropping like flies as Guardian's pinpoint accuracy brought them down low, thanks in part to the target-rich environment they were providing.

Ford barely batted an eye as the enemy's own return fire — wildly inaccurate in comparison — blazed around him, digging up mud or burrowing into the rock behind him — sometimes even ricocheting harmlessly against their body armour — Meteor's personal shield doing that job for her.

Thankfully, no grenades had sailed towards them — Petrovsky took care of those jokers quickly enough, usually causing any offending parties to drop said dangerous projectiles in the midst of their comrades, with extraordinarily beneficial results, especially when the explosion cooked off more grenades.

Had they been Vikings or other warriors of old, Ford had no doubt that Guardian's heroic last stand would've been the stuff made for songs sung in beer halls. As it was, however, only Castle Base and a select few others knew where they were, and the details of the op would probably remain buried in some deep, dark hole in the middle of nowhere.

Hell, he felt bad for the people listening in from Castle Base. All they could do was watch as Guardian was slowly overrun.

"Castle Base, this is Guardian Actual," Ford called up the base one last time. "It's been real, ladies and gents. See you on the other side."

Silence greeted his last statement to Castle Base, unsurprisingly. How did you comfort a man — nay, his entire team — when you knew they were facing a very violent death? Ford smiled within his helmet, his face positively drenched with sweat now, despite the inbuilt cooling systems. The Last Stand of Task Force Guardian. What a way to go.

"_Don't count yourselves out yet, sergeant._"

Ford blinked at the sudden, unfamiliar voice cutting into his comm frequency; just in time to see a trail of smoke whizz overhead, followed by a resounding, violent explosion within the enemy ranks.

"_The fuck?!_" cried out Buchanan in surprise. "_Who's been keeping the fucking rocket launcher in motherfucking reserve?! Bear, so help me fucking God if you —"_

"_Oi, I'm __**right here**__, you stupid bint!_" Bear protested, smacking his partner's helmet. "_Do I __**look**__ like I'm carrying an RPG?_"

But if it wasn't Bear, their explosions specialist, then who _was_ the one who fired that rocket?

"_Heads up, Guardian, friendlies coming from behind!_"

Ford could barely believe his eyes as he looked to his side and saw men and women in _civilian_ clothing rush past them, guns blazing. The DGSE, too, seemed stunned by this sudden arrival, and more than a few of them fell to the sudden gunfire before they managed to bring their wits about and returned fire.

Just in time for the ground beneath them to suddenly sprout spikes and impale a good dozen.

Morale shattered instantly. No one in _any_ branch of the military of _any_ country could've ever mistaken the sudden appearance of spikes for anything less than its usual culprit — magic. If that was the case, then perhaps the Northern Sun had managed to insert a fully functional, unwounded Military Mage with their reinforcements?

Well, _fuck that._

Understanding how truly boned they suddenly were, the DGSE broke ranks and began a retreat back towards Chiny, the sudden civilian reinforcements chasing close behind. For Task Force Guardian, this was one of the most unusual scenes they'd ever seen in the war; and given they were in a war where magic was used to set cities on fire, that was saying something.

It became even more unusual as a figure leaned out from behind their rocky rear to smile at them. Liam's eyes visibly bugged out, Bear's comm went something like "_hummina, hummina, hummina,_" and King could be heard mumbling rather crude fantasies as the men of Guardian bore witness to the face of a half-Veela. Only Ford remained stoically silent, though he was _really_ wishing the team's body armours didn't come with such restrictive crotch cups right now.

"You must be Guardian," the woman greeted them with a friendly smile, a very audible French accent permeating her words and a _very_ obvious wand twirling in her fingers. "I am Gabrielle, of Redemption. Agent Smith sends her regards. Congratulations, Guardian. You survived."

* * *

**_Post-AN_:** As always, I hope you've had a good time reading this chapter, and hope to hear from you! Positive feedback is always appreciated, but if you do have a critique, and are willing to dialogue like an adult, then I'm always open to that too :D

Cheers,

MB


	30. Chapter XXX: Aftermath

_**AN:** __New chapter up! Woo! Hurray me!_

_That said, my beta Ray has been remarkably busy these past few weeks, for which we have had very little chance to talk about this chapter. For that reason, if perhaps you find it lacking in some measure, please be sure to let me know! Let it be known that any fuck-ups in this chapter are mine and mine alone! :P_

_Cheers,_

_MB_

* * *

_**Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, April 17, 2017 (several hours earlier)...**_

"All I'm saying is we need to be ready...just in case," cautioned Joshua as he watched Sirius pace to and fro outside their King's hospital room.

"Out of the question!" Sirius snapped, stopping long enough to grace the Duke of Warwick with a brief, punctuating glare before resuming his pacing. "Enthroning a child...how reckless would _that_ look to our enemies?"

"Not as reckless as keeping a comatose man on the throne," Joshua pointed out. "One we've no idea if he's going to wake soon or not. How are the people supposed to trust the government when the head of state is out like a light, Sir—Michael?" Joshua quickly amended, recognizing that outside of a very few select people, Sirius' identity as Sirius Black was still very much unknown.

"We must trust that he'll come out of it soon," Sirius insisted. "Forcing the burden of rule on Katerina, at her age...it would be inhuman!"

"So declare a regency." pointed out Ragnok in his usual, gravelly tone. Unlike the rest of the Cabinet, the Goblin leader didn't seem the least worried about the current situation. And why should he? His people had been freed from the yoke of the Ministry of Magic's inept rule, and were now an integral part of Northern society and commerce. Whatever happened next, so long as it wasn't blamed on his race, would hardly matter to the Goblin Nation. "It's not like you humans haven't had those before."

"A regency will destabilize the populace, regardless of who rules in His Majesty's stead," countered the Director of Communications, Amy Gupta, as she fretted in her seat. Her tanned skin stood out amongst the much paler members of the Royal Cabinet. "But we _do_ need a solution, Prime Minister; we're less than a decade into the King's rule...not many will be ready for a child monarch _or_ a comatose one. Much l_ess_ our allies or the _French_, when we finally capture Paris."

Sirius grumbled under his breath, knowing that neither side was wrong. A comatose King was a disaster whether or not there was a viable successor on hand or not. If Harry didn't wake up, then the Constitution would force him to enthrone Katerina, with Elicia possibly as her regent. Of course, that'd be a guaranteed civil war at this point, or at very best the ETO would fracture irrevocably. Or, alternatively, they could postpone the decision further and further into the future, but that brought about its own risk; people would start questioning the legitimacy of _any_ decision made by the government. And if they didn't, then that meant that they'd start to question the _need_ for a monarch, risking their vision of a unified Europe happening within their lifetimes, as a democratic union achieved through peace would take decades of negotiation and compromise.

Because there was just no getting around it — the one who's vision they were following was Harry. He had taken the dream to reform the United Kingdom such that the Ministry would no longer be an independent body, and turned it into a vision of a united Europe. Moreover, he'd brought them closer than anyone else in the past century.

Katerina, on the other hand, though his sole heir, was both underage, under-educated as a result, and a political unknown. Right now, there was no telling whether she resented her father's job for taking him away from her so often, whether she would even willingly accede to the throne, or if she'd grow up to follow her father's vision. What if she turned out a nationalist? What if she didn't want the throne?

No. Harry _had _to wake up. This budding empire of theirs — and no one was fooling themself thinking it was anything _but_ — needed its Emperor.

"Prime Minister," spoke up Christopher Clancy, the Minister for Sport. "As much as I wish it weren't so, my colleagues are right. We need a decision, soon."

Sirius stopped his pacing, hands clasped behind his back, and turned his head to face his colleagues. "Soon is _not_ now," he stated flatly. "The Queen Consort is already on her way back here to reunite with her daughter and husband. We can postpone ruining their lives to another day."

"Then can we at _least_ talk about appointing a Minister for Health?" James Potter brought up then, glad to have this rather depressing talk over with. As Harry's father, he was loathe to participate in a discussion regarding his son's succession, as that currently would inevitably mean he'd lost his eldest child, too. "My Ministry's getting overwhelmed by all the health demands we've been getting."

Sirius sighed explosively as he raked a hand through his greying hair. "I'll need to talk to William about setting up a new Ministry," he noted, scratching his head as he gazed pensively at the floor. "Anyone got any candidates we could look into for the position?"

"It'll have to be a doctor, or former medical professional of some kind," Gupta pointed out. "Opinion polls have been pretty clear about that — the people don't want untrained, bureaucratic lifers or politicians in charge of the Ministries. If we pick the right candidate for the job, it could be the morale win we need to keep the attention off the King's condition."

Ragnok growled. "I am loathe to admit that none of my kin would fit the bill," he noted sourly. A very well known — or ill kept secret — point of his political agenda was, in fact, the appointment of more Goblins to high-ranking government positions. Ostensibly to level out the racial playing field, but everyone knew he just wanted to avoid a repeat of the Ministry-Goblin fiasco. "Our culture doesn't quite value such things; most of us tend to die from overworking or war."

"Charming," Joshua noted with a grimace.

"_Anyway_," James spoke up then, trying to avert a possible battle of words between the Foreign Office and Treasury, "I have a list of candidates," he informed Sirius. "Medical professionals all of them. One's an MP, in fact, though for the Opposition."

"And why on earth would we appoint an Opposition MP to a Ministry?" asked Clancy askance.

"Because as much as we might hate the idea, their health platform's better than ours," Sirius stated flatly. "Only reason we haven't adopted it yet is because we'd look like bloody copycats. If we invite the MP into government, it'd just look like we're being bipartisan."

"Load of bollocks," offered up Henry Galloway, thus far silent, incredulously. The Lord Judge of the Northern Supreme Court had been amusing himself by watching his Cabinet colleagues go at each other.

"Maybe, but the people don't know that," Sirius conceded to the one member of the Royal Cabinet who _wouldn't_ be booted out in any upcoming elections. As representative of the Supreme Court, he had a right to sit in Cabinet for the duration of his term as Head of the Lord Judges — which just meant he had to be challenged for the leadership by ⅔ of his Supreme Court colleagues.

In other words, he was probably going to serve as representative of the Supreme Court for life.

"Health's all well and good, but what about Education?" pointed out Clancy. "The post's been sitting empty for months now! I've been told it's been called the Empty Chair Ministry by the Civil Service, for goodness' sake!"

"There's not many teachers who would play ball with the government," Joshua pointed out simply, frowning at the floor. "They're either too radical or too inept. The moderate bunch are so few and far between that we'd be hard pressed to find one who wouldn't call us fascists or wouldn't make us look bad with their bumbling."

"Why not hand it over to another member of the Royal Family, then?" suggested Clancy. "Your wife, for instance!" he suggested to James, who scoffed.

"With my second son controlling the Civil Service, my daughter-in-law commanding the Ministry for Science, my eldest son ruling the country, and all Internal affairs going through my Ministry? We'd be the most nepotistic government since the formation of Great Britain!"

"Humans and their bizarre rules," grumbled Ragnok. "If the Duchess is the fittest candidate, then put her in the chair."

"There are reasons for those rules, and this is hardly the place for this discussion," Sirius stated sternly to his colleagues. Without having planned for it, the Cabinet had managed to delve into political affairs, even while waiting on their King's condition at the hospital. "We may be Ministers of State, but we are also His Majesty's subjects. Let's show some decorum, hmm?"

Grudging silence befell the group as they waited patiently in the all-but deserted hospital floor. With the assassination attempt so close to success, the King's Guard wasn't taking any chances and had the entire hospital floor completely cleared, except for any essential staff. Anyone else who wanted to come up to their floor had to go through rigorous security checks, both for physical weaponry and magical influence.

Case in point, every member of the Cabinet present had been forced to prick their finger for a blood sample, to be tested for Polyjuice. Then, they'd been put through some of the Ministry's dark magic scanners to test for any other untoward spell influences, with negative results.

It'd been a chore, but it was rather telling of the level of paranoia the King's Guard had developed since the failed attack.

Sirius sighed as he rested against a wall, feeling the weight of his creeping years. He might not be as old as Dumbledore was — old goat was still alive, somehow; Sirius blamed the sweets the man loved so much — but he sure as hell _felt_ as old.

The elevator's familiar chime sounded from across the hall, then, prompting him to look that way. A couple of orderlies filed out, soon followed by a woman Sirius hadn't thought he'd see again until very recently. A very large smile blossomed as he pushed himself off the wall and walked towards her, arms spread in welcome.

Elicia Eisenheim, Queen of the Northern Sun, had returned to them at last.

He hugged Elicia tightly as she accepted his embrace, chuckling in relief. "My dear, you have _no_ idea how relieved I am to see you!" he told her earnestly as he pulled back and kept her within arm's reach, beaming down at her. "When we heard the news of your kidnapping...we feared the worst."

Elicia, looked haggard, upon closer inspection, yet her smile retained its radiance, speaking volumes of the woman's inner strength as she ducked her head shyly at his words.

"I was saved by very brave men and women," she said modestly. "I can only hope they made it out as safely as I did."

Sirius didn't have the heart to inform her of the situation with Task Force Guardian — whose ongoing situation he was continuously being updated on — instead opting to smile and motion her to his colleagues. All of them were standing and bowing slightly in respectful greeting. Even Ragnok, cantankerous and fiercely independent as he usually was, bowed deep before his monarch's mate.

"Welcome back, Your Majesty," Joshua intoned solemnly as he maintained his bow.

Elicia quickly became flustered with the display, motioning for them to stand up straight again. "Please, please," she insisted. "There's...there's no need for that."

Sirius frowned. Usually, though Elicia did in fact find these rituals unnecessary, she tended to voice her opinion much more strongly. Not to mention that she usually had a stern, confident posture about her — all of which was missing right now. Had she not naturally gone through the same security procedures as the rest of them, he might've thought her an impostor.

Perhaps her ordeal had been harder on her than first thought?

"Perhaps you should go inside now," he suggested slowly as he motioned towards the King's room. "Your daughter is inside, of course."

Elicia looked up at him in relief and nodded fervently before quietly moving over to the door and opening it, a mixed look of hesitance and...something else in her eyes. Fear? Anxiety? Whatever it was, she took a deep breath and slowly turned the knob, opened the door, and slowly disappeared within.

* * *

Elicia wanted to cry.

She wanted to cry _so much_ it _hurt_.

From the moment she'd been captured, to the beatings she'd endured in that dusty old home in...nowhere, Belgium...to her daring rescue...all she'd wanted to was cry. Cry, cry, and cry.

But she hadn't. She was Queen of the Northern Sun. Wife of the most powerful man in Europe. Mother of the future Queen of the Northern Sun. Creator of the FCE Generator, of the FCE-powered battery, lead researcher in Projects HAVOC and ATHENA. She was Elicia Maria Eisenheim, one of the most well known, respected, and powerful women of the Northern Sun.

But all she wanted to do was cry.

She'd been so scared. So utterly terrified out of her mind throughout the whole thing, that acting like her proper station had been the _only_ refuge she had. She felt her mind very nearly snap maybe a dozen times amidst the punches and slaps. She'd wanted to burst into tears when her kidnappers had threatened her with killing Katerina, or when they lied to her and told her that her husband was dead.

She'd known it was a lie — Astoria would _never_ have allowed Harry to die, after all — but it still hit her right where it hurt.

When one of the mercenaries the DGSE had hired offered to rape the information out of her, it'd been all she could do not to lose her mind. _Her_ mind. A mind so intelligent her husband regularly admitted being one of the factors he found sexiest about her. So fragile that the mere threat of being defiled by another man it had very nearly collapsed under the stress.

Shame had flooded her system all the way back to Olympus Military Base in Brussels. Shame at how very close she'd gotten to the brink of giving up, or of losing every shred of decency that had made her a great and respected woman.

Shame of realizing how much of her calm, collected, and wise attitude was just a front for the myriad of insecurities and fears she held deep within her.

She hadn't told her captors a word, however, beyond simply trying to make polite conversation. Harry would probably congratulate her effusively on that...if he woke up. Sirius and the Cabinet would, too, probably. Everyone would say how courageous she was to resist her captors so much, despite her precarious situation.

None of them understood how close she came to talking. And that shamed her.

She felt unworthy of her husband's love. Unworthy of her daughter's admiration. How could they admire such a weak woman? How could they possibly believe her to be someone great, when she'd been maybe half an hour away from betraying her family and country?

Within her husband's hospital room, Elicia was glad for the lack of scrutinizing eyes and simply collapsed on the floor right in front of the door, sobbing quietly into her hands as she remained there on her knees, her dirty clothing merely an ongoing reminder of her harrowing experience.

It wasn't just the experience, though. Not if she was being honest with herself.

She wept for how alone she sometimes felt, despite being surrounded by a virtual crowd of colleagues and admirers. She was married to a wonderful, if flawed man, and yet she often felt that he wasn't...there. That his eyes were so transfixed on the future that they just went right through her. Like she and Katerina were mere...pawns for his desired future.

And then there were the expectations. All the _goddamn_ expectations! Colleagues and subjects alike who looked to her to solve all their lives' problems, as though her mind was a magic wand which could conjure up new inventions on demand! Didn't they know how many times she failed before a single great idea came to fruition?

The emotional floodgates now opened, Elicia sobbed on into her hands, ignoring how she must've looked for once in her adult life. As horrible as it sounded, she dearly wished Harry had just decided to _not_ fix the world. To let it _rot_ the way it'd been for decades before he came along. That they'd just taken off, together, and eloped somewhere — _anywhere!_ He could've been a teacher! She could've worked in some dingy lab! She didn't care...as long as the _world_ wasn't on their to-do list!

But she knew she was just being selfish. Horrible, petty, and selfish.

Her work had ameliorated the lives of millions. Harry's vision would see Europe wiped clean of the old ways — perhaps even united for the first time in human history. Their daughter would grow up in a world where her magical heritage wouldn't need to be hidden away, and if her upbringing worked out, she would rule this united Europe wisely and justly.

A good legacy. A wonderful legacy.

And she honestly wished, right now, that it wasn't hers to leave behind. Because right now, all she could think about was how much each of those punches, kicks, and slaps had felt. How cold the devices they'd used to torture her had felt just before her world exploded into pain unlike anything she'd ever felt in her life.

Was _that_ the price of ruling? Was her daughter going to have go through a similar experience as hers? Or as Harry's? If so, it wasn't worth it. Not one bit.

"Mummy?"

Elicia barely heard the soft, sleepy call of her daughter, but it was enough to get her to exercise some restraint as she sniffed back her tears and wiped away her dirty hands on her much dirtier dress — the very dress she'd been wearing to go to the orphans' charity event when she'd been kidnapped.

Slowly rising to her feet, Elicia used her forearm to wipe away her tears before slowly walking over to the small, wrapped up bundle on the couch, smiling down at her daughter as she knelt beside her. "I'm here, Katie," she told her daughter softly, stroking the little girl's hair gently. "I'm here."

"...er real?" Katerina asked sleepily, and a brief batch of moonlight let Elicia see that her daughter's cheeks were stained with tear tracks. No wonder she was so tired...the poor thing had probably cried herself to sleep.

Elicia smiled down at her daughter, keeping her gentle strokes even. "Yeah, Katie, for real," she confirmed softly. Katerina must've thought she was in a dream, however, as all she did was give a satisfied grunt and roll over to suddenly embrace her mother in a tight hug — the same way she reacted whenever the two shared a bed due to a nightmare or just because Katerina was feeling lonely.

"Your Majesty?" another voice whispered softly then, sounding incredulous. Elicia turned around as much as she could without breaking Katie's embrace, and saw Cecilia standing behind her, looking about ready to hex her, judging from the wand in her hand. Quickly realizing her mistake, Cecilia quickly tucked away the wand and bowed. "I...We hadn't heard you'd been freed!"

"It's alright, Ceecee," Elicia told her lady-in-waiting with a gentle smile. "I just got back. Some very brave men and women risked their lives to get me out safely."

Cecilia nodded in submissive acknowledgement before glancing over to the comatose King's bed. As usual, the reigning monarch hadn't made a move or peep since his hospitalization. The doctors had warned that they shouldn't expect that to happen for another day, but many had hoped that perhaps the freeing of the Queen would be enough to bring him out. Like in the movies.

Reality was much less forgiving.

The King stayed still in his bed, unmoving and silent. Were it not for the bandages still wrapped around his head, he might've looked like he was simply sleeping, or meditating. Perhaps even thinking of more ways in which the Northern Sun could change the world they lived in.

"His Majesty has been...recovering, Your Majesty," Cecilia informed her patron softly, wrangling her hands anxiously. "The doctors say he should be making a full recovery in a few days."

Elicia smiled in thanks, nodding. "That's good to hear," she noted. "Thank you, Ceecee."

Cecilia nodded again. "Of course, Your Majesty," she said demurely. "Will you be staying here for the night? Perhaps require a change of clothes?" she added upon eyeing the horrible state of the female monarch's attire.

Elicia looked away then, the reason for her state still quite fresh in her mind. "I...yes. Please. Thank you, Ceecee," she thanked her attendant.

The former Death Eater nodded again and bowed, as befitted her station, before leaving the hospital room as quietly as she could. Ordinarily, she would've just Apparated back to the Palace and gotten the Queen's things quickly, but with the entire hospital in total lockdown, the wards put in place would've held out for weeks even if Dumbledore and Voldemort battered at them with their entire magical powers combined.

The King's Guard was _not_ fucking around.

Left alone with her husband and daughter, however, Elicia slowly managed to extricate herself from her daughter's embrace, tucked her in, and then went to Harry's side, one hand tracing the bed's edge before resting on top of his.

Mixed emotions registered within her. Happiness — of course she was happy to see him. Love — that hadn't changed. Bitterness — it _had_ been his vision which had gotten them in this mess in the first place. Anger — why couldn't he had just decided to have a normal life with her?! Was their safety an acceptable compromise for him, in return for absolute power?! And love, tempered with self-recrimination — it wasn't his fault this had happened. It wasn't. The DGSE had chosen to fight this war dirtily. They had _chosen _to target the Royal Family specifically, regardless of age, sex, or complicity. And, from what she'd seen in that dingy house in Chiny, they were in cahoots with mage factions that were diametrically opposed to her husband's vision.

She took her husband's inert hand and gave it a soft squeeze, leaning in herself to give him a soft kiss on the lips. "I love you, Harry," she whispered to him as she gently rested her forehead against his.

"I love you, so come back to me," she added, feeling her eyes welling up again. "I understand now. I understand what you tried to keep from me. The darkness, the hate. The...violence," she swallowed. "I understand it all now, so come back to me, and I'll help you. With France. Germany...Europe. I will make you the most powerful man on Earth, so that no one can touch us ever again." she vowed fiercely, before calming herself down and kissing him again.

"So come back to me."

* * *

_**Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, April 19, 2017...**_

Darkness.

Darkness all around him. Harry swam in it, breathed it in deep. He could feel it, touch it...and watch as it slipped his grasp. It was unreal.

He knew he was hurt — he wasn't so far gone as to mistake what he was seeing anything but the product of a damaged mind. How hurt he was _exactly_, however, was another question entirely. It wasn't a light injury, since he'd otherwise be dreaming of something a bit more coherent, he thought. He wasn't effectively gone, either, considering that he was still self-aware.

He grumbled in irritation. Or rather, he imagined himself doing so, he supposed. The last thing he remembered was going to sleep one night, after having kissed his wife and daughter goodnight. Then, nothing. He supposed whatever had happened to him would be explained by whatever had happened in the lost time in between...since he didn't _think_ he'd been the victim of a stroke in his sleep.

And if he was, there were enough diagnostic spells placed on him to ensure that the finest medical help in the Northern Sun was on hand in seconds. So that probably wasn't it.

Perhaps a blow to the head? It would explain any memory loss. He snorted — he sure as hell hoped he hadn't been the victim of an accidental trip down the stairs. How humiliating would _that_ be?

He tried talking, but found that nothing came out. Frowning, he tried again, with similar results. Glaring at the nothingness around him in irritation, he tried lifting his hand — zip. No limb control and no talking. Fan-fucking-tastic. He closed his eyes, then opened them — still darkness all around. He was still under.

Alright, now he was getting mad.

Glancing down at his hand, he willed it to move. It twitched, prompting a satisfied smile. Good. That was a definite start. Not enough to get his mood back up, but enough to prevent him from possibly unleashing enough accidental magic to burn wherever he _really_ was to the ground. His anger worked like that. It wasn't healthy, sure, but what was the alternative? Talk to a shrink? Hell no.

His frown grew deeper. If Ellie ever found out, she'd make him go a shrink, undoubtedly. Cementing his desire to _never_ let his wife know about this anger management issues, he set his focus back onto getting his limbs to work.

Out in the real world, his efforts were translating into miniature movements, which his wife was slowly realizing were happening as his twitching hand woke her up while she lay beside him on the edge of his bed.

"Harry?" she mumbled, half-asleep. Blinking away the cobwebs, she realized that his hand continued twitching every so often, despite still being quite asleep. "Oh my goodness, Harry?!" she exclaimed a little louder now, almost jumping off the bed as a groan slipped through her husband's lips.

"Mummy...?" Elicia whirled around to see her daughter slowly rising from her own sleep, yawning cutely as the future Queen fought to stay awake.

"Katie, stay here with your father, I'm going to get the doctor," she ordered Katerina as she quickly left the hospital room. Katerina mumbled an "okay..." before drowsily shuffling over to her father's bed and climbing up next to him, promptly going back to sleep. Much like her father, Katerina _really_ loved sleeping in — a personality quirk that Cecilia waged an eternal battle against as she tried to make the princess act more her station.

Unfortunately for the princess, her sleep was promptly interrupted when her mother burst through the door, a parade of doctors behind her. Noting her sleeping daughter at her husband's side, Elicia was torn between waking her up or just leaving her be...but quickly realized that the doctors would not be able to do their work with Katerina in the way. Scooping up her sleeping daughter in her arms — noting with some melancholy that the little girl was perhaps growing a little too big to be carried for much longer — she stood aside as the doctors poured over her husband, taking note of every vital sign they could think of.

Once they were done, a few of Harry's physical twitches causing a fair bit of excitement, one of them approached the King and opened one eye, shining a little penlight into the monarch's eye. "Your Majesty?" the doctor asked as he looked for signs of consciousness. "Can you hear me?"

For a moment, there was utter silence, before a very distinguishable growl emitted from Harry's throat.

"Is there a _reason_ why you're trying to blind my left eye, doctor?" Harry asked irritably as his right eye fluttered open and glared.

Squeaking in surprise, the doctor jumped back, letting go of the king's eye. Freed of the unwanted light source, Harry blinked a few times as he tried to regain his bearings, quickly taking note of the smell of antiseptic and the fair number of people in white lab coats. Hospital. Of course.

"How long was I out?" he asked immediately, preempting any questions the doctors might've had. Of course, they _could_ have ignored him and carried on with their medical duties in making sure he was alright, but one had to be pretty brave to ignore the King's questions.

"Four days," a familiar voice answered him, prompting his gaze to sharpen as he watched a few doctors step aside to reveal his wife carrying his only daughter. Harry broke out into a happy smile for a moment before noting that Elicia seemed...weak. Hurt, even, despite the lack of apparent wounds.

And just like that, his anger hit a new high.

"Everyone but my wife and daughter, get out," he ordered flatly.

"But sire, we _must_—" one of the doctors began to protest, before a _very_ chilling feeling ran through nearly everyone in the room. Only Elicia and Katerina, who woke up suddenly, feeling quite confused, didn't seem to share the sudden fright that Harry's furious gaze wrought.

"_Get. Out._" he ordered firmly. Without a single more word of protest, every doctor Elicia had brought in with her quickly evacuated the room, leaving the Royal Family to themselves. Noting that his daughter had woken, Harry quickly reeled in his anger, closing his eyes to take a deep breath before giving the most important women in his life a smile.

"Hello there, sweetheart," he greeted his daughter, who, still a little drowsy from being woken up by the sudden spike in magic in the room, nonetheless quickly recovered as she processed the fact that her father was awake. With a happy squeal, Katerina practically launched herself out of her mother's arms and into her father's, who gladly returned the squeezing hug while laughing.

Elicia, on the other hand, remained where she stood, one hand on top of the other near her groin as she watched the father-daughter reunion impassively. Harry didn't need a behaviourist on hand to know his wife was _not_ pleased.

Kissing his daughter's head as she snuggled into him, he lulled her into a state of sleep with some wandless, silent magic, not wanting her to be privy to whatever discussion he and Elicia were about to the bundle of joy in his arms was softly breathing, he turned his attention to Elicia. "What happened?" he asked simply.

"We were attacked, Harry," Elicia informed him calmly. "You, me, _and_ Katie. Ceecee kept Katie safe, but I was taken by our attackers."

He didn't need many more details to know that if that was true, then she'd been rescued by his forces soon after. "A lot seems to have happened while I was out," he remarked stoically before looking down at Katerina. Anger swelled in him as he thought of the men — and he used the word liberally — who'd thought to harm his darling daughter. "And I'm sorry, Ellie, for what you had to go through."

Elicia didn't smile, but nor did she shout at him. Instead, she did something far more unnerving — she frowned. "I appreciate it, love, but I'm afraid that's not enough," she told him flatly before crossing her arms, suddenly reminding him of the firecracker she used to be in her teenage years. "We were _attacked_, Harry. Personally. In the very capital of what _should have been_ the most secure nation in the _world_."

"Trust me, love, heads _will_ roll on this," Harry vowed, his own expression less-than-cordial.

"I'm not talking about punishment for lazy government officials or foreign leaders, though that'd be nice, too." she informed him as she began drumming her fingers on her shoulders — a well known sign of impatience. "We were attacked so brazenly because of the war. Because people believed, quite rightly I might add, that taking you out meant taking the Northern Sun out."

Harry was silent, though he agreed with his wife's assessment. Apparently, it hadn't escaped his enemies' notice that much of the driving force behind the Northern Sun's ascendancy was, in fact, Harry. Taking him out, or his family, was likely to be a winning move in any conflict from here on in. "What would you have me do?" he asked quietly as his hug on his daughter tightened.

The words he was most afraid of hearing, "divorce me," never came. Instead, he watched Elicia sigh and rub her forehead tiredly with the bottom of her palm. "As much as I hate the danger you've put us in, Katie would never forgive me if we split up over this, nor would I," she told him before setting her face into a stern expression. "So win. Win this war, and the next, and the next, until no one can touch us _ever _again. Make the French surrender so _soul crushing_ that your enemies will understand that touching your family again would result in _very_ bad things happening."

Just as he was about to open his mouth to reply, however, she stepped up, grabbed him by the cheeks, and kissed him for all he was worth. Pulling back after a brief few seconds of passionate snogging, she glared at him as they remained nose to nose. "But if anything happens to Katie, Harry...I will _never_ forgive you." she told him softly, but with such force — her very voice trembled with suppressed anger — that Harry knew she was _not_ fucking around. If his daughter got hurt because of who he was, he knew Elicia would leave him cold.

"I wouldn't either," he assured her softly as he brought up a hand and clasped it over hers. maintaining eye contact throughout. "I'll win this war, Ellie...but I need to go back to the field. I can make them fear me and my anger, but not from a throne in some far off capital."

Elicia gazed deep into his emerald eyes for a moment as she looked for any signs of weakness that might've informed her he was lying to her. Finding none, she sighed before nodding. "Do whatever you have to do, Harry. Just keep your word."

Harry nodded once, his free arm tightening his hug on Katerina's slumbering form. "I will, love."

"I swear it."

* * *

_**SIS Prison Facility "Tartarus," London, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, April 28, 2017...**_

SIS Prison Facility 043, Codenamed: "Tartarus."

Originally a public gym, the facility had been commandeered by the SIS early on in the aftermath of the Northern Sun's victory over the Chiefs of Staff. Situated near the center of the city, Tartarus was perhaps _the_ finest SIS Black Site in all the Northern Sun. Every major enemy of the state had probably gone through there at some point, and very, very few of them ever lived long enough to get transferred to another, more lenient Black Site. The finest tools, skills, and equipment in interrogation craft were kept in Tartarus, and its staff was not shy at all about using _any_ means necessary to get their subjects talking.

Interrogation Mages, in particular, were in high demand within Tartarus, as new inmates were informed of the consequences of lying by making them watch videos of the aftermath of one of the Interrogation Mages' "sessions" with a prisoner, both mage or non-mage.

And within Tartarus, one of the SIS' latest captives, fresh from Operation Guardian, was currently being introduced to the numerous delights the facility had to offer, under the careful watch of two of the SIS' finest operators...

Josefina watched impassively as Wolfsbane smashed his fist into the mage's face again, snapping the woman's head to the side violently.

Beside the sound of Wolfsbane's hands delivering unheard-of punishment against the sole mage prisoner they'd recovered from the near-fracas that Operation Guardian had been, the only sound in the room was the monitor overhead, which was broadcasting the live award ceremony that Harry had ordered in honour of Task Force Guardian.

The SIS' contribution to the operation was naturally omitted from the broadcast, of course. It didn't matter, though; she'd gotten her medal in a much more private ceremony, then had it taken away until such a time as the operation would be declassified.

In other words, never.

The funny thing about this interrogation was that neither she nor Wolfsbane had even asked the mage a single question thus far. They'd both walked in and the infamous mage spy had started in on the prisoner, despite their captive's protests.

Josefina let him do as he wanted. It was cathartic, she imagined, for the mage; after all, he appeared to share a great sense of kinship with the Royal Family _and_ the Prime Minister, so he was probably as enraged as she'd been about having to sit out on the extraction op. Or that the situation had even occurred to begin with.

Despite their prisoner's silent pleas, however, Josefina just kept her eyes firmly on the monitor, ignoring the whimpering or Wolfsbane's growls. All she really had to do at this point was make sure the woman didn't die on their watch — even though the operation was a success, nominally speaking, they still had a _lot_ of questions left to be answered...and unfortunately Guardian hadn't been able to fully accomplish their mission to keep the FCE tech out of enemy hands.

A post-operation sweep of the area had revealed that some of the FCE components that allowed their helicopters to function despite the residual magic in the atmosphere had been successfully scavenged from the crashed wreck of Whiskey Five-Three. Fortunately, the much more important battery system for the vehicle had been wrecked beyond repair in the initial explosion, or else the Northern Sun could've been in much deeper shit.

Another, louder whimper managed to slip out from their prisoner as Wolfsbane started in on her again. Rolling her eyes, Josefina afforded the scene a chiding glance. "Keep it down; the King's about to speak," she told Wolfsbane.

"Heh," snorted her colleague as he withdrew and cleaned off the blood from his hands with their captive's jumpsuit. "You sure you don't want a crack at her?" he asked.

Now it was Josefina's turn to snort. "I oversaw the op that had a team of nine men out-fight over a hundred DGSE agents and _her_," she nodded towards the prisoner significantly. "I'm good."

Wolfsbane chuckled as he withdrew a pack of cigarettes and plucked one out; only Josefina's stern frown had him hesitate from lighting it up in the room. "What?" he half-asked, half-demanded. Normally, he wouldn't have taken shit from any other agent in the SIS regarding his habit — one he'd grown into after his second assassination as a way to _not_ break down over what he'd done — but Nightshade, as he still insisted on calling her out of respect, was one of the finest agents he'd worked with; she'd _earned_ the right to call him out.

"You know the regs, old man," she told him flatly. "And I hate the smell. You want to puff out a fag? Go outside."

Wolfsbane looked at her askance for a moment before chuckling. "Alright; be back in five," he told her before walking out the door. Left alone with their captive, Josefina continued watching the monitor's live feed of the ceremony, while the mage prisoner whimpered in her seat.

A minute passed by. Two. Four minutes and Wolfsbane hadn't returned. Josefina didn't care, however; she just kept watching the telly. Their prisoner, however, was growing more and more anxious by the second as the clock set over the door counted down the seconds before her nightmare would continue.

She didn't know it, but Josefina kept her well within her peripheral vision, a part of her wondering what kind of mage they were dealing with. Was she a fanatic, a die hard believer in magocentrism? Or was she a rat, willing to jump ship when her life was at stake? The problem with torture was that one could easily become the other, or at least wear the veil of the other as a form of getting out of the pain involved. She didn't much like torture herself — though, granted, she didn't count ripping the secrets out of a person's mind as torture.

Rather, she liked trying to get them to offer said secrets up willingly. Not only did it spare them the need to find an Interrogation Mage, but it also ensured that the prisoner's mind was left intact in case of future need for questioning.

"What...do you want?"

Josefina managed to bite back the smirk that threatened to pop up. As expected, the prisoner had realized that not talking, even if it was just lies, was probably going to end up being bad for her health.

"I didn't ask you anything," Josefina pointed out smugly as she kept her focus nominally on the telly. Still a lot of pomp and circumstance, with wearily long speeches intermingled between musical numbers. When the hell were they going to get on with it and just _give_ Guardian their medals?

"Then...why...hurt me?" the prisoner asked amidst whimpers of pain. Wolfsbane's punches must've really cut up the woman's inner cheeks and bruised her jaw muscles, because even just talking seemed to hurt her.

"Oh, Wolfsbane? He's just venting," Josefina answered casually. "Your mates and you tried to kill people very dear to us, and kidnapped the Queen from right under our noses. That's just impolite."

"Can't...talk...if...dead," the prisoner tried to point out. "Help...please..."

Josefina laughed, much to the woman's confusion. What was so funny about that idea? "You don't get it, do you?" Josefina asked as she walked around from behind the prisoner so she could face her straight on. "We don't _need_ you to talk. That buddy of yours from the DGSE? I bet the Interrogation Mages are ripping his mind to _shreds_ looking for any relevant information as we speak. If _you_ don't wise up and talk, that's how you'll end up, too. Either way, we get what we want."

The mage stared up at her unbelievingly. Was Josefina really that heartless?

Josefina sighed as she crossed her arms, raising an impatient eyebrow at her prisoner. "You seem to be under the impression that you can just sit there, bloody and beaten, and I'll eventually succumb to my sense of human compassion, right?" she asked rhetorically before shaking her head. "You've got this backwards, lady. You're not a POW. You _don't_ have rights. You are a terrorist with no affiliations to any recognized belligerent in this war with which we have an agreement regarding the treatment of prisoners. As far as people are concerned, you _don't exist_. That means we get to do whatever we want to you, and no one's going to protest."

Obviously, mainly because no one would ever know what happened to the mage...or that she even existed.

The prisoner started to shake then, obvious fear plastered all over her face. Clearly she'd underestimated the brutality the Northern Sun was willing to stoop to in order to get what they wanted. A grievous mistake to make when your opponent has dreams of empire.

"I'll talk! I'll talk!" she insisted desperately, prompting a satisfied smile from Josefina, just as the door opened and in walked Wolfsbane, looking ready to go for round 2.

Josefina, however, stopped him as he neared their prisoner, placing a hand on his chest. "It's alright, she's promised to cooperate," she informed Wolfsbane with a smirk.

The older spy, however, seem unconvinced. "Who's to say she's not lying?" he asked quite rightly.

Josefina eyed the prisoner. "She's not. Because she knows that if she is, she'll be joining the other blokes over at the Mental Facility, _right_?" she asked her prisoner pointedly, prompting the mage to nod feverously. Josefina smiled at Wolfsbane. "See? No problem."

Wolfsbane scoffed incredulously but made a show of relenting as he walked to a corner of the room and sat down in one of the foldable chairs they'd brought in for the interrogators. From his body language, it was clear he was letting Josefina run point on this.

Given such tacit permission, Josefina dragged up a chair near the prisoner's own and sat down directly opposite her, crossing her arms over her chest in a show of confidence. "Now then. Let's start with a simple one: what's your name?"

"Sigyn Gifford," the witch supplied promptly, clearly still very terrified of the idea of getting her mind torn to shreds by brutal Legilimens-specialized mages.

Josefina made a face at the name but then turned a bit to smirk at Wolfsbane. "See? Quick and probably truthful."

Wolfsbane rolled his eyes as Josefina turned back to Sigyn and continued her interrogation. "Who do you work for, Sigyn?" she asked, bringing out a small datapad to write down the woman's answers.

This time, however, Sigyn showed a little reticence, her facial expression — even amidst the growing bruises and black eyes Wolfsbane had given her — showed great reluctance and anxiety. Josefina was quick to catch on, however, and simply put down the datapad on her legs and made to turn towards Wolfsbane.

"Looks like the Interrogation Mages it is," she told the older spy wearily, prompting a reaction out of their prisoner.

"Death Eaters! I work for the Death Eaters!" Sigyn supplied frantically, her half-swollen eyes as wide open as possible as she looked from Wolfsbane to Josefina and back.

Josefina smirked at her openly before recording the answer. "Very good," she crooned before following up with, "How did you survive the purge?"

"I was on assignment," Sigyn supplied reluctantly, looking quite defeated. "When I got back, I was told of the conquest of our homes. Very few of us were left."

Josefina and Wolfsbane exchanged looks then, some scepticism showing on both their faces. Even if the genocidal campaign up north _had_ managed to severely deplete the Death Eater numbers, the SIS' own estimate of the Death Eater ranks still numbered around five hundred or so.

"To whom did you report to?" Josefina pressed. There were a few Death Eater Inner Circle members still out in the wind, and SIS had put rather large bounties on each and every one of them.

"Rookwood," she stated through gritted teeth. "Augustus Rookwood."

"Number six on the list," Wolfsbane pointed out with a low whistle. "So the bugger did make it out alive."

"Was Rookwood involved in the attack on Liverpool and the Royal Family?" Josefina asked pointedly, ignoring Wolfsbane's comment. "How direct was his involvement in those attacks?"

Sigyn struggled against her restraints a little before slumping into her chair. "We were just the providers," Sigyn admitted as she continued to eye Wolfsbane — the reason why her entire being felt like one big bruise. "Those Muggles wanted a way into the Northern Sun, we gave them preset Portkeys. Nothing more."

"Makes sense," admitted Josefina as she turned to face Wolfsbane. "Fits the preliminary analysis, anyway." Wolfsbane nodded in agreement before getting up and circling around Sigyn like a predator out for blood.

"But if that's true, then why was dear little Sigyn here in Chiny?" he pointed out.

Perhaps unconsciously, Sigyn began visibly trembling in her seat as she pointedly felt Wolfsbane's presence, his very closeness emanating warnings of painful retribution if she fibbed now. "They needed information!" she gasped out desperately. "They didn't want the Muggle bitch too hurt, so they wanted to know how to get the information out of her without hurting her beyond use!"

That insult against the Queen earned Sigyn a slap, not from Wolfsbane but from Josefina, who quickly composed herself and recorded Sigyn's answer on her datapad. Not like it was absolutely necessary, truthfully, since there were a myriad of audio and video recording devices all around the room carefully documenting the session.

"Language," Josefina simply warned her before continuing. "So you're saying your entire reason for being in Chiny was in the capacity of technical advisor?"

Sigyn blinked at the complicated terminology before slowly nodding. "I...guess?"

Wolfsbane snorted as he continued his prowling. "Keep it simple, Nightshade; remember, these inbred morons aren't as smart or educated as you."

The fact that Sigyn actually had enough self-respect to puff up in outrage was rather amusing to Josefina, though she chose not to comment on neither that nor Wolfsbane's comment. "Did you achieve your goal?" she asked calmly. "Was any information extracted from Her Majesty?"

Sigyn looked like she wanted to say something rather rude for a moment, but then deflated and glared impotently. "No," she admitted reluctantly. "Your soldiers arrived too soon."

Josefina smiled privately at the comment. She didn't doubt that Ford and his team would probably take great pride in that — though if she had to tell King to shove another of his invites for a date up his ass again, she couldn't be held responsible for her actions!

"At what point, then, did your mission become one of acquiring our technology?" she asked, and suddenly Wolfsbane stopped his prowling so that he stood directly behind Josefina, glaring down at the prisoner.

Sigyn obviously looked away from the older spy's vengeful glare. "I don't know," she admitted, prompting a tell-tale sigh from Josefina that got Sigyn's head snapped up and looking pleadingly at the female spy. "I swear! I don't know! I was captured by your soldiers, remember? I was _only_ there for the information inside the Muggle's head!"

"I hate to say it, but I don't think she's lying," Wolfsbane muttered as he glanced down at Josefina, who frowned as she typed in Sigyn's answer and then lay the datapad on her legs, thereafter cupping her chin pensively.

"Which would mean she's telling the truth about her faction's role in this operation," she extrapolated. "Better hope the DGSE agent yields more information on that front," she noted with a weary sigh before picking her datapad up again and fixing Sigyn with a stern look. "Last question for now, then," she told her prisoner simply.

Sigyn nodded fervently as she kept switching her stare from Josefina to Wolfsbane and back.

Josefina took a deep breath. "Where are the Death Eater leadership hiding?"

* * *

_**Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, May 5, 2017...**_

"Albion," Josefina stated simply as the holographic image metamorphosed into that of a political map of Albion. "According to our sources, the Death Eater leadership is definitely located within Albion, likely in one of these three areas," she added, prompting the A.I. to summon three pulsing pings on certain areas of the map.

"The find is well within our expectations," Xeno informed Harry as he leaned forward onto the table, looking towards his sovereign. "We've long suspected this to be the case, but the mage prisoner from Operation Guardian confirmed it. We've had teams infiltrate Albion to confirm the information, and so far it looks like solid intel."

"And as a further precaution, we dosed the prisoner's water with Veritaserum," Josefina added as she crossed her arms. "She wasn't lying."

Harry nodded as he sat back into his chair and observed the open file on the table before him. Along each side of the conference table, his Cabinet were still pouring over its contents with a fine tooth comb. Josefina's presentation was nothing more than a summarized version of the documents lying before him. "They may have moved since her capture," he pointed out.

Xeno nodded and shrugged. "Perhaps, but unlikely. The exact nature of Operation Guardian remains classified, and the gag order we've instituted has ensured that the press hasn't blabbed about it."

"And the Death Eaters' allies?" pointed out Sirius then, frowning at the Intelligence chief. "They obviously have a way to communicate with them that we're not aware of; all they need to know is point out that their operation failed and the Death Eaters will know what's going on."

"A fair point, but it's a risk we need to take if we're to take down, at the very least, Augustus Rookwood," Josefina pointed out as the A.I. obligingly put up a holographic mugshot of Augustus Rookwood, notorious fifth in command of the Death Eaters. "Although we don't know who else will be present, our sources indicate that at the very least Augustus Rookwood and his cell are residing in Albion, which _should_ warrant deployment of SpecOps teams to take down the cell."

"Except you're suggesting _raiding_ a _sovereign_ nation with whom we have no quarrel!" the Duke of Warwick spoke up then, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Our foray into the Death Eater Territories was different, so don't even think of using that as a legal justification! We invaded the DET out of revenge and conquest, but we're talking about raiding an independent nation, with whom we have no current diplomatic issues, for the sake of _maybe_ finding and taking out a terrorist cell!" he reminded her forcefully before looking to his colleagues. "Not _one_ of our allies would wear it!"

"Warwick's right," Galloway rumbled as he lay his intertwined hands on his stomach and frowned at the report before him. "There isn't a legal justification for a raid into an independent nation. Not under the ETO's charter, anyway, and if this government thinks it's alright to break the very rules they set up, then the ETO becomes worthless," he reminded the collected members of the government.

"Even so, we can't afford letting the Death Eaters stew," Harry's father pointed out before tapping the report with one finger very decisively. "What happens if they decide to help another attack into the Northern Sun? What if the next attack targets a military installation, or worse, a civilian populace?"

"What if the next attack _succeeds_?" posited William calmly as the second Potter son regarded his Cabinet colleagues as emotionlessly as he regarded life in general. "We were lucky this time around, but relying on luck is a fool's gambit. Logic demands the extermination of the Death Eaters to safeguard our borders."

"Logic, or your desire to see your family avenged?" asked Clancy as he leaned forward, frowning. "I'm with Warwick; we can't just be barging into sovereign nations willy nilly. If we want Rookwood's head on a pike, I say we negotiate with Albion for a temporary pass."

"At which point, the Death Eaters would find out about the raid and take precautions," James pointed out sternly, his furious gesticulating belying his suppressed irritation. "Albion's government is just as porous as the Ministry ever was! We can't trust _anyone_ there with sensitive information!"

"Then perhaps we should bypass the government," Josefina cut in then, grinding the discussion to a halt as every pair of eyes became riveted unto her. She afforded her audience a small, smug smirk before explaining. "As much as I hate to even contemplate this, we _do_ know of an extra-official group within Albion who could take care of this for us."

There was a brief pause as the Cabinet Ministers processed her words before Sirius' eyes widened and he slammed a hand onto the table, practically jumping to his feet before pointing to Josefina accusingly. "No! Absolutely not!" he spat. "Bad enough that we want to _raid_ a foreign country, but now you want us to negotiate with _her_?!"

Curtis, who'd caught on to what Sirius was referring to, became equally displeased. "That woman's a loose cannon," she warned her colleagues as she threw in her lot with Sirius. "One moment she's sabotaging our efforts, and the next she's helping us. Who's to say she won't use this information to stab us in the back?"

"What, like _negotiate_ with the Death Eaters?" Gupta asked sceptically. "We've all read the files, General. She despises the Death Eaters possibly even more than we do. There'd be no reason for any such cooperation."

"But her superiors may not share her convictions," Xeno pointed out smartly. "We _can't_ take the risk that the information regarding the Death Eaters is leaked. We should _not_ share the information with any more people than is absolutely necessary."

"And who gets to decide that? You?" Accused Clancy. As the meeting's voices grew in both heat and volume, Harry was content to merely sit back and watch. He knew that within a few moments, all expectations would lie with him...and he intended to take things one step further.

"Your Majesty, what do _you_ think?" Sirius finally asked after much arguing with his colleagues. Just like that, every eye turned towards Harry and silence descended upon the rambunctious group. Harry, however, was in no rush to pronounce his decision.

Closing his eyes, he thought the situation through. True enough, there was no way the Northern Sun would be able to get away with a raid into Albion. Even if his allies in the ETO agreed to it, those nations who remained unaligned around the world would instantly jump to the other side. The Ambassador from the United States, as a matter of fact, had expressed his disapproval more than once at the fact that the ETO and Northern Sun hadn't done more to include the other European nations within its deliberative process. The only answer they'd been able to give him is that the conference between the Heads of State was within the right to know of _only_ its constituent citizenries. Allowing foreigners to sit in and voice opinions on internal affairs would've been an intolerable intrusion.

It had worked thus far to settle some of the more pressing concerns from the United States...which was actually another source of anxiety. While their American neighbours had initially asked for assistance via FCE-enabled technology, their requests for such help had substantially decreased with time, eventually nearly petering out. Instead, they had begun giving _back_ some of the pieces they'd been loaned...and upon checking, the loaned devices were in perfect order.

Two theories had arisen out of this — either the United States government had managed to efficiently corral its population for maximum FCE tech efficiency; or worse, it had devised a way to replicate the technology within its own labs.

It was fine if it was the former, but if it was the latter...that meant the European conquest had to be sped up. Or, at the very least, legitimized. If the United States managed to regain its military dominance within a few years, then any offensive the ETO launched in its campaign to unify Europe would be under grave danger of being stopped cold by the United States military.

On the other hand, if they could convince the US that they _needed_ a unified Europe...

But that was a pipe dream, and neither here nor there right now. Right now, the question of the Death Eaters was on the table, and he had to make a decision.

"Contact Ginny Weasley," he ordered as he opened his eyes, tapping his shoulder rest pensively. "Have her deal with this mess. If Albion wants to coexist with us, they'll have to prove it with Augustus Rookwood's head."

Sirius, still standing, looked about to protest, prompting Harry to move on. "_Furthermore_," he added sternly, focusing his gaze on Sirius until the man sat back down, looking rather mutinous. "after having reviewed the events that led to the attack on Liverpool, plus the rate at which the conquest of France has been achieved, I have decided to return to the field in my capacity of Military Mage."

Shouting, almost unanimously in opposition of his wishes, exploded from his Cabinet as his Ministers strived to pull out every single legal, moral, practical, and theological argument in the book to justify why he shouldn't do so. None of it mattered to him; he'd made a promise to his wife, and he was damn well going to keep it.

A blast of magic shut the entire room up as Harry slowly rose from his seat at the head of the table, looking for all the world calm and collected. The very fact that he'd been able to unleash such a wave of primal magic, however, informed the gathering that he was anything _but_.

"This war has gone on _long enough,_" he stated patiently as he drew to his full height to look down at each and every one of his Ministers, and Josefina. "The hearts and minds of our enemies continue to resist us valiantly, and we are running out of time," he pointed out. "During the Anglo-Spanish War, it was the Military Mages who crushed the souls of the enemy. Made them _fear_ for their lives far more than they feared the penalty for desertion. Our enemies have _forgotten_ that fear."

Harry brought up a hand and, before their eyes, set it alight with magical fire. "I will make them _remember_." he vowed darkly, his hand aflame, yet no damage being done to his hand. "I will put that fear of death back into the very fibers of their souls, right where it belongs."

* * *

_**Chiny, Belgium, May 10, 2017...**_

Revisiting an old battlefield was never an easy thing.

Most soldiers tried to simply shut away their memories of the battle, but many others had trouble reconciling their safe present with their danger-ridden past. Only with age and acceptance did one grow to tolerate the area you nearly lost your life at.

But Ford had neither right now.

Operation Guardian might've been over — his Task Force disbanded — but the memories of Chiny remained vivid in his mind, as though it had only happened yesterday.

And, were one to look at the town and its surroundings, one would've imagined so, too.

The mages had kept it perfectly the same, much to his mixed wonder and disgust. Every crater, every spike and impaled corpse...everything was _exactly_ the way he remembered it, minus the ongoing fire fight and the perpetual chance of losing his life.

Hell, Ford didn't even know why the hell his section had been ordered to run protection duty for the eggheads while they bagged and tagged every corpse and every bullet in the area. There were literally hundreds of thousands of other soldiers who could've drawn the short stick, but _nooooo_; _he_'d pulled it.

"_Have I mentioned I fucking hate this bloody town?_"

Ford chuckled within his helmet as King's whiny tenor sounded off from the comm. It was a sentiment widely shared amongst their section — even despite their Lieutenant's effusive congratulations and his fellow soldiers' adulation for having managed to pull off the impossible with his entire team alive. Even so, however, Task Force Guardian had no illusions of how close they'd come to dying, and just being back in the village of Chiny was like being punched in the gut.

Repeatedly.

But orders were orders, and despite the shiny Star Cross — the highest military commendation in the Northern Sun — he and his team had _all_ earned for their incredible valour, that didn't give them the right to say "no" to a direct order from a superior officer...especially since their lives were no longer on the line.

"_Look at it as an opportunity to gloat, King,_" Liam spoke up then, prompting Ford to try and spot his friend amidst the ruined area. His eyes scanned the area before recognizing Liam standing by a team of SIS agents who were bagging another DGSE corpse. "_Fuckers can't fight back, so go nuts._"

As much as he wanted to agree with Liam, Ford knew he had to make sure his team understood their role here. "Not literally, though, King," he warned as he activated his communicator. "SIS says it needs everything exactly the way it was when we left."

"_That why Snap and Bear are all the way over in the village, where there's less bodies, sarge?_"

"_Fuck you, King._"

Ford chuckled at the byplay. It provided a nice distraction from the vivid memory recall he would've otherwise experienced from just being here. "Something like that," he admitted casually, prompting a sputter of indignant noise from Buchanan.

"_Hey, I can play nice if I fucking want to, sarge!_"

"That true, Bear?" Ford asked with a smirk as he looked over in the direction of the village, where a scattered few pillars of smoke from the ruins were still billowing, despite the fire fight having ended more than a few days ago.

"_Hell no, sarge. She'd have gutted one of the stiffs._"

The veritable deluge of rather offensive language that followed managed to get a few chuckles over the comm. However, as Ford checked his team's status on his visor HUD, he noticed that only two people didn't have their comm channels open: Alice and Petrovsky.

Well, the latter wasn't a big surprise. Petrovsky liked his silence and kept it, and Ford respected that. Alice, however, usually had a crack or two to say — usually some geek stuff that flew right over most of their heads.

Opening up a private channel with the team medic, he hailed her. "Doc, you reading me?" he asked calmly — he was sure she was just busy, but if Ford gave her an order to respond, she would. That's why when no answer came, he frowned in worry. Her vitals read strong, still, so she wasn't in trouble.

In that case, however, where was she? And more importantly, why wasn't she answering her comm?

"Anyone got eyes on Doc?" he asked over the TEAMCOM.

"_She was leading one of the egghead teams into the forest, wasn't she?_" Liam mentioned. Ford saw his friend turn his head in the direction they'd retreated as a team before quickly turning his attention back to the SIS team he was guarding. "_Anyway, I'm sure she's fine._"

For some reason, Ford doubted that. Alice was a strong woman, but still just a human being; and what they'd gone through in the forest was the stuff of nightmares — especially when you realized that they'd all been forced to come to terms with their own deaths just before being rescued.

"Petrovsky, you seen Doc?" he asked the usually taciturn marksman. There was a brief pause during which he was sure Petrovsky debated the pros and cons of answering, before the man relented and did his duty.

"_She's at the trench, sarge,_" came the short reply before the comm went dead.

Ford sighed — he'd feared as much. Unlike the others, Alice hadn't been able to take well to their return to Chiny...or rather, _as_ well as the others. Not that he blamed her — he wanted out of this god forsaken place as much as anyone else in his section. The problem was, orders were orders.

Fortunately, however, he didn't have to play babysitter personally. Calling up Liam's personal comm channel, he quickly explained his intentions and left the man in charge of the situation out in the fields while he went off to deal with Alice. Liam, naturally, understood perfectly and didn't hesitate for a second to agree to the order.

Ford smiled. Liam was a good friend like that. And an excellent Corporal. He knew a few hardasses who thought emotion was for weaklings — commissioned and noncommissioned asshats who would call a man suffering from trauma a coward. Liam, however, understood that sometimes you needed to take a break and deal with the issues before they got out of control — a mantra Ford himself had adopted long ago and even taught to his second in command.

So, as he walked into the forest he'd not so long ago would've given an arm to run away from safely, he knew Liam would hold down the fort loyally. But the trek he did was no less burdensome to Ford, however.

Every branch his armoured boots crushed underfoot, every rock he overturned, somehow managed to hit another body, or another sign of the vicious battle he'd only escaped a few days ago. He crouched underneath a tree broken in two, almost managing to trip over a body that had been hidden from view by fallen brush. A few meters later, he had to check his footing or else he would've fallen into one of the mortar craters.

And everywhere, bodies lay strewn, a grim testament to the odds Task Force Guardian had beaten back by the skin of their teeth.

When he reached the trench, however — the place where they'd made their last stand — the first thing he noticed was Petrovsky sitting atop his perch, high up on the tree he'd used to spot the enemy from and perform some of the most stunning combat marksmanship Ford had ever seen. The silent marksman was just sitting there, obviously shirking his duty in protecting the SIS teams back in Chiny proper. It didn't take a genius to figure out why.

Standing before the trench where Task Force Guardian had made their last stand was Alice, helmet loosely hanging from one hand, her medium length chestnut hair held back in her usual workplace ponytail. Her back was to him, but Ford knew enough about his section to know she was probably so deep in her thoughts that she hadn't heard the minor racket he'd caused just trying to get to her and Petrovsky.

Pausing for a moment, Ford sighed within his helmet before briefly looking up at Petrovsky, whose helmeted stare was on him, and tapping the side of his helmet as a sign that he was going off-comms. The marksman nodded silently and watched as his CO slung his rifle across onto his back and pulled off his helmet, wincing a bit at the sudden blast of dry heat.

Quickly recovering, however, he went up to his section medic and thought about putting a hand to her shoulder, but quickly dismissed that idea. If she was stuck in some sort of memory lane trip, physical contact could result very badly for both of them. Instead, he opted for a more vocal route.

"Doc," he called out to her. As he'd expected, she suddenly jerked about, snapping out of her daydreaming and letting her helmet fall to the muddy ground. Whirling around, hands already on her weapon, she desisted upon realizing it was her sergeant talking to her.

"Frak me, sarge..." she muttered, embarrassed, as she bent down to pick up her helmet, trying to get as much of the mud off of it in vain. "Thought you were one of the Frogs..."

"Battle's over, Doc," he reminded her as he stepped up so that he stood beside her, also checking out what would've been Guardian's grave, had Redemption not saved their asses at the last minute. "No more Frogs from here to France."

"Yeah...right..." she agreed hollowly as she returned her stare at the trench. The two remained in tense silence for a moment before Alice spoke again. "We were dead, sarge."

Ford merely stared up at the sky at the comment. "Redemption saved us, Doc," he pointed out. "We were wrong to give up."

"I remember thinking I didn't want them to take me alive," Alice went on, ignoring him. "Had all those morphine syrettes on hand. All the spare ones the team wouldn't need beyond the ones I'd given you. A painless way to go."

Ford didn't need an above average IQ to figure out she was talking about offing herself, and _really_ didn't like where this was going. "You wouldn't have," he told her gently, with a firm undertone.

Alice afforded him a shamed glance before returning her gaze to the trench. "How do you know?" she asked, a very real undercurrent of accusation running through her voice.

"'Cause I ain't led you and those assholes back there through thick and thin just so you can go off yourself at your own damn fancy," Ford told her gruffly, levelling a stern glare at her. "I've fought by your side and you by mine since we invaded this fucking country, Alice. We should've died a thousand bloody times by now but we haven't. And I'll be damned if the reason I have to write a goddamned letter to your parents is because you chose the easy way out," he told her firmly, not even noticing that he'd called her by her first name. "You're not a coward, Doc. You don't abandon your friends."

"You sure about that?" Alice asked depressingly, and the odd sniffle here and there told Ford she was probably holding back quite the cry.

"I've been letting you save my arse every time I get shot, haven't I?" he pointed out with a self-deprecating smile. "Buchanan thinks the world of you, Bear's always slipping you that comic book contraband, right?" she nodded a bit, prompting a smile from Ford. "King _obviously_ wants to shag your brains out..."

That got a choked laugh out of the medic. King had often lamented that the two women on this planet he had absolutely _zero_ chance of hooking up with, but were so damn tasty themselves, were _both_ in his section. Naturally, he avoided saying this in front of Buchanan, who would've probably taken the opportunity to remind him why she was a machine gunner by trade and he was still just a regular grunt.

"Liam thinks you're the third best soldier in the section, Petrovsky...well, who the fuck knows what _he_ thinks?" Ford continued, promptly interrupted by the arrival of a piece of wood from above hitting the trench. Both Alice and Ford looked up to see Petrovsky flash a thumbs-up at them before returning to his silent vigil. Ford snorted. "Well...apparently he feels you're alright."

Alice giggled softly at the comment before noting that he'd left one person out of his list. Wiping her eyes with the clean parts of her gloves, she ventured an inquisitive glance at Ford. The sergeant simply matched her stare silently. "What about you, sarge?" she asked.

Ford smirked. "Wouldn't _you_ like to know?" he mused tauntingly before turning around and walking away. Alice blinked in surprise for a moment before squawking indignantly and trotting out after him.

"Hell yeah I would, sarge!" she exclaimed as she kept pace with him.

Ford gave her a knowing smirk before bringing up his helmet and slipping it on, turning to look at her once his visor had polarized. "You gonna think about killing yourself again, soldier?" he asked via the external speakers, stopping his trek back to the village.

Alice stopped in pace and frowned at him. Then, without a word, she brought up her helmet and slipped it on as well, keeping her gaze on him through the transparent visor until it polarized. "Fuck no, sarge! Who the hell would patch your sorry arse up if I did?" she answered in the same manner.

Ford snorted. "Good answer, _Lance-Corporal_," he told her as he tossed her a couple of fabric chevrons — for her to sew onto her uniform later — before turning towards Petrovsky's direction and opening up a comm channel, leaving Alice standing there, stunned at the sudden promotion. "Spectre, we're headed back to the village. Get your arse down here and get back to work!"

"_Already down, sarge._" Petrovsky announced before suddenly appearing to their right, carrying two more slings across his shoulder than he should be. "_Found something._"

Ford cocked his head sideways in curiosity. "What's up?"

Petrovsky was silent as he tossed his marksman's rifle to Alice and then unslung one of the extra weapons he'd _obviously_ picked up from some dead bastard's body. "_Bad news._" the marksman informed his NCO before tossing the unfamiliar weapon over to Ford, who caught it in the air rather easily.

Ford blinked as he looked over the weapon. Something was wrong here...the assault rifle in his hand was clearly _not_ a French regular issue FAMAS, which _all_ the DGSE troops they'd encountered had been wielding. If anything, it was less bulky...more akin to their own Northern-issued SA80s. Even so, he didn't recognize the design. "The hell is this? French prototype?" he asked.

Petrovsky shook his head. "_Heckler and Koch. German weapon,_" the marksman explained before turning around slightly and pointing to several locations. "_Found it on a few bodies that way. My kills._"

Ford knew Petrovsky wasn't bragging at the moment. The marksman didn't usually talk enough to even broach something akin to bragging. All he was doing was informing his sergeant of the way the weapon's former owner had died.

Still, finding a German weapon in the middle of a war between the ETO and France? Not a good sign. Even if it was just the case that Germany had sold the French a few crates of the weapons, it would be enough to warrant widespread outrage at German war profiteering. Grimacing, Ford checked the rifle's magazine before his grimace turned more pronounced. It was half empty, and a wipe of the barrel's tip told him that it _had_, in fact, been fired.

SIS was going to have a field day with this, no doubt. Sighing, he put the rifle away before nodding to Petrovsky. "Good find. What else you got back there?"

"_Worse news_," Petrovsky stated grimly...and Ford could _tell_ it was grimly because the marksman's baritone had dropped an octave. Silently, the marksman unslung the other weapon behind his back and showed it to Alice and Ford. This time, Ford recognized it on the spot.

"Is that an...?" he started.

"_Avtomat Kalashnikova_," Petrovsky confirmed in fluent Russian. "_Never forget the design. AK-74. No doubt. Dozens near the trench._"

Ford felt his blood run cold. Even if the German weapon's presence could be explained away without much of a fuss, the AK-74's could not. In the constant climate of fear that Europe had suffered under for decades, the Russians had become notoriously unwilling to let go of their weapons...no matter how small or how easily produced. Seeing an AK-74 on a Western European battlefield was thus cause for great concern. For either the Russians had lost a substantial number of the rifles to a band of mercenaries — unlikely in itself — or, more likely...

The Russians and Germans had directly contributed to the attack on the Northern Sun.

As if the world wasn't fucked up enough already.

* * *

_**Post-AN**_: _Harry's back, baby! Yay! And what's this? The Germans and Russians are plotting against the ETO? Say it ain't so! How will the Northern Sun react to this revelation? How will the war fare now that the Emperor-to-be is back on the field? Will his marriage weather the test of war? Find out...probably in a rather numerous amount of upcoming chapters. :P_

_Cheers,_

_MB_


	31. Chapter XXXI: The Fall of France

_**AN: **__Next chapter! The war in France winds down as the Northern Sun moves towards its endgame in the first phase of its European conquest. Next up, the Fall of Paris!_

* * *

_**Tours, France, May 14, 2017…**_

"_You should be here, Your Majesty._"

Harry just raised an eyebrow at that statement as the holographic image of Sirius frowned at him. Sirius didn't usually call him "Your Majesty" unless he was in the company of others. How many other Cabinet members were there with him?

"I'm where I'm needed, uncle," he told Sirius respectfully as he crossed his arms.

"_You're needed here,_" Sirius's ghostly image insisted, his frown deepening. "_This matter of Russo-German cooperation in the attacks on Liverpool can't be ignored. We need to devise a proper response._"

"So devise it," Harry said archly. "You are the Prime Minister of the Northern Sun, uncle. Surely you don't need me to hold your hand in this?"

"_No, but we need to know where you stand_," Sirius answered flatly. "_Warwick's pushing for a cover-up, while Elizabe—General Curtis,_" he quickly corrected himself, "_wants to publish the details of Operation Guardian far and wide. She wants us to nail them to the door._"

Harry could appreciate both plans. Covering it up would mean luring the Russians and Germans into a false sense of security, especially if they thought the Northern Sun hadn't discovered proof of their complicity. However, at the same time, it would also mean pretending like they _hadn't_ tried to kill him and his daughter, and tortured his wife.

Not exactly something he was willing to let go.

On the other hand, Curtis' desire to publish the details of Operation Guardian would be a masterstroke of PR. In one swift stroke, they would prove the French were worth fighting, that Northern troops were superior even when severely outnumbered, and that even with the Russians and Germans, the DGSE couldn't stop the Northern Sun from achieving their objectives. On the other hand, it would also place Germany and Russia in a corner, possibly prompting them into a preemptive war.

Pros and cons. Pros and cons.

"Neither," Harry said, closing his eyes as he thought things through. "We can't let them get away with this, but nor can we force them into open war. We might be able to bring down France in short order, but with the massive troop reserves both Germany and Russia would bring to the table, we'd be overrun in short order."

Sirius sighed, hanging his head. Apparently he'd rather expected Harry to say as much. "_Then what do you want us to do?_"

Harry smiled. "Split them up, of course," he said with a knowing smile. "Tell Joshua those exact words. Then tell him to get on it."

Sirius rubbed the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "_I'm getting too old for this,_" Harry heard the Prime Minister mutter before nodding at him. "_Fine. I'll let him know. That still doesn't mean you're not needed here._"

"Perhaps, but at the same time, I'm needed out here, too," Harry reminded him as he leaned forward to make level eye contact with Sirius' diminutive holographic form. "They attacked our capital because they thought I could be taken out like any other head of state, uncle. I'm going to show them what a _grievous_ mistake that was."

Sirius sighed. "_Of course, of course,_" he conceded absently before frowning up at Harry. "_But I still don't see why you couldn't have made your first foray into a surprise attack. Why announce it?_"

Harry smiled dangerously. "So when they get hit, they know it was me," he explained simply.

The news had spread fast.

Harry hadn't even boarded his plane to Caen before news of his return to the battlefield had already reached as far as the southern front, near the A89 Line, so called for the highway the front line straddled.

At first, the Foreign Office had been swamped with official protests from their ETO allies and a few independent parties – not the least of which were the United States, Germany, and Russia, who all regarded this bold move as further provocation against the French.

While the Foreign Office had been conciliatory towards their ETO allies and the United States, however, its tone became like frozen ice wherever the Germans and Russians were concerned.

To many within the Northern government – and surely the general public, once they learned the truth about their neighbours – the involvement of the German Federation in the attacks on Liverpool had come across as a stinging betrayal. During the Franco-German conflict, much of the Northern Sun had sympathized with the German cause, and more than a few corporations had sold or donated – always in secret, of course – supplies to the Germans, always at a discount.

To hear, thus, that they had repaid their kindness with such a betrayal had infuriated much of those in-the-know about Operation Guardian. In turn, their cold attitudes had bled into their subordinates, until the government as a whole regarded it as unofficial policy to give the Germans and Russians _none_ of what they wanted. Even the American Ambassador had noted the heel turn, and had properly distanced himself from the German and Russian delegations.

Despite the foreign outcry, however, the reception within the Northern Sun to Harry's deployment was a mixture of anxiety and wholehearted respect. Everyone was fully aware that as the reigning monarch, Harry had the right to pull himself off the front lines. That he was willingly choosing to go back, despite his lofty position, however, had the public believing that he was committed to the idea of saving as many Northern lives as possible. Only a few cynics accused him of being a bloodthirsty sociopath, and these opinions were almost universally shunned.

But the reception Harry cared most about was that of his soldiers.

Arriving in Tours, the moment he had stepped down the ramp of the Portkey Arrival Platform he'd been greeted with roaring cheers as soldiers rose their weapons above their heads and whooped at his arrival. The feats of Hellfire hadn't ever died down within the collective memory of the Armed Forces, and more than a few newbies were looking forward to seeing him back in action. The veterans of the Anglo-Spanish War, for their part, merely grinned as they felt safer already.

For the Military Mages, however, it was like being in the presence of a God. Nearly all of them realized very clearly that without Harry, there would never have been a Military Mage Corps. Moreover, none of them had individually achieved a long and distinguished career as a Military Mage that even began to compare to the feats of magic that Harry had performed as Hellfire.

Thus, his codename had never had a second owner. He was still _the_ Hellfire.

But even so, he was quick to notice the remarkable changes that time had wrought on the military encampments. Back when he was a mere soldier, he'd been used to seeing tent cities surrounding a besieged city. Mortars and other pieces of artillery were usually dug into protective cover made of dirt and barrels and whatever other scavenged materials soldiers could find. The "hospital" was little more than a large tent that smelled of blood more than antiseptics.

That was gone now.

The ragged tent cities were gone, replaced with magical tents properly spread around the perimeter, courtesy of shrinking and enlarging charms. Set roads, obviously the work of magic, were carved into the ground to ensure efficient transportation of supplies, while the first aid tent was now a converted magical tent, and as such its interior was not just larger than its exterior would presume, but also far better equipped.

If anything, it seemed like the troopers here were enjoying a rather pleasant field exercise, rather than besieging a city.

Tours was, of course, one of the most vital cities within the French defensive line. Strategically set along the A28 and A10 Highways, capturing Tours put two major French positions, Orleans and Poitiers, within the reach of the Northern Sun's western front. With Swift's assault focused on linking up with General Ruiz-Perez, however, this meant that the assault on Tours was designed to be more of a distraction than an actual siege.

Harry was here to change that.

His meeting with Sirius over, he walked out of his tent and went straight for the command tent. Striding into the field HQ in his full, navy-blue Military Mage uniform, Harry was very aware that every eye had turned to him and every conversation had abruptly ended as the people within realized they were in the presence of their King. More than a few made a motion to bow or salute before Harry raised his hand and waved them off. Instead, he strode deliberately towards the holographic map, where the senior-most officer of the encampment, a Brigadier, was holding his crisp salute firmly in place as Harry approached him.

"At ease, Brigadier," Harry commented with an easy smile as he came to a stop at the man's side and motioned towards the map. "If you would, I would appreciate a sit-rep."

The Brigadier saluted again – unnecessarily, really – and nodded. "Of course, Your Majesty!" he stated gruffly before turning to the holographic map of the city, digital markers denoting known enemy and friendly positions. "As you can see, sire, the we have managed to push the French forces out of southern Tours. Roughly three quarters of the northern half has been encircled, and all six river crossings have fallen to under our control," he explained as the table's A.I. intuitively zoomed out the map to show the extent of the Northern forces' progress. "Unfortunately, we have been unable to cut off the road to Orleans, meaning French reinforcements have continued to pour in from the north-east."

"_General Swift's advance southwards has caused this offensive to lose much of its manpower, Your Majesty,_" the A.I.'s male sounding, synthesized voice explained as a ghostly, pale blue orb burst into being from its holographic projector. "_Brigadier Horn has been unable to muster enough to break through the French barricades across the river._"

Harry raised an eyebrow at the A.I.'s sudden interjection. The ones back home were submissive to a fault, never offering up information unless asked first. This one was obviously designed to be much more aggressive. "What is your designation?" he asked the A.I. He'd have Ellie look into the machine's records for anomalies.

The hologram was silent for a moment before speaking again. "_I am Artificial Intelligence Construct Nevada Sierra Dash Zero, Three, Six, One, Codenamed RAGNAR, Your Majesty._"

Ragnar. Sounded Nordic to Harry. Even so, he'd have the A.I. looked into, just in case. Turning back to the Brigadier, Harry nodded. "So, to sum things up, you have the entire city under lockdown, except for one avenue leading straight to Orleans, which the French continue to control."

Brigadier Horn slowly nodded. "Correct."

"And this is because you do not have the manpower you require to take the road and secure it without possibly losing control of the terrain we've already obtained."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Harry nodded to himself, looking at the holographic map of the city while cupping his chin pensively. All around him, he could hear the rest of the staff slowly get back to work as they realized he was here for mission strategy, not to shake hands, much to their disappointment. It would have to be a disappointment they'd have to live with, since Harry had to act fast to cement his reputation for good.

"Bring up the road leading to Orleans," he ordered softly.

Ragnar complied immediately, zooming in the map until it was clearly centered on the one highway leading north-east. "_The A10 Highway, sire._"

Harry nodded again, leaning forward to get a better look at the area. As Brigadier Horn and Ragnar had pointed out, the A10 Highway was indeed the only real obstacle left before they could either starve out the defenders or just overwhelm their defenses on all sides. While the A10 remained open — something that would remain so while the on/off ramps remained under enemy control — there would be a steady flow of French reinforcements.

Which was amusing, in a sense, because the blackout ought to have invalidated the French army's need for set roads. After all, without cars, why on earth would they use highways when they could just go cross-country and surprise the Northern Sun's forces?

The reality was, however, that the French still needed the roads to get their equipment from point A to point B quickly. Even without cars, there were other ways to move about via wheeled transportation. A popular method had been conscripting horses of every kind to pull the army's equipment, for which roads were absolutely necessary.

Which meant he now had a target.

He pointed at the A10 highway's bridge crossing over the Loire river. "How many troops on that bridge?" he asked simply.

Brigadier Horn glanced over at Ragnar's hologram, much to Harry's dislike. Back in his day, the commanding officer would've had to know this sort of information on the spot. Was the implementation of A.I.s just making his officers lazy?

"_Two hundred and fifty Northern troops occupy the A10 bridge, sire,_" Ragnar informed him after having called up the relevant information from his ever-updating database. "_Baker and Charles Companies from Third Battalion, and an armoured detachment from the Twelfth Armoured Brigade._"

Were it not for his rank, Harry might've whistled in appreciation. Two hundred and fifty troops, including tanks, was nothing to sneeze at in modern combat. It almost made him question how Horn had not been able to break through the enemy barricades on the northern side of the Loire. But, for the sake of temperance, he decided to give the man the benefit of the doubt. After all, Swift had put the man in charge here, so he was probably not that bad an officer.

"What sort of defenses are they up against?" he asked, soon nodding imperceptibly as Ragnar zoomed in the map to the immediate area north of the bridge. Numerous fortified HMG nests and anti-tank artillery positions littered the area — only the order to not commit collateral destruction saved them from extinction, however.

"HMG nests, AT positions, shoulder-mounted AT rocket launchers...anything that doesn't use electricity and can kill, they've got it," Horn informed him, sounding incredibly frustrated. The man ran a hand through his golden hair before leaning forward on the holotable. "I've already lost seventy men trying to cross the bridges, and the outskirts have cost me fifty more!"

On the greater scale of things, one hundred and twenty casualties was a pittance, compared to death tolls in the thousands. However, Harry was well informed by Sirius and Curtis that the population back home had come to expect lower casualties as a result of the massive leaps in technology. As such, 120 deaths was pretty damn bad for an assault launched on an enemy with no electricity.

Harry nodded, cupping his chin pensively. "I see," he said softly. "And likely, even with magic, these assaults will continue to cost us dearly."

Horn nodded tiredly. "Yes, sire. Ragnar's already calculated that even if we managed to take the opposing riverbank, we'd probably lose another two hundred securing the city...best case scenario."

Harry glanced at the silent holographic form of the A.I., for once appreciating its contribution. "I presume you offered them a chance to surrender?" he asked, prompting Horn to nod. "How did you communicate with the enemy?"

"Loudspeakers, mainly," Horn admitted. "They usually reply by courier or shouting." he paused for a moment, before looking a little sheepish. "May I ask why, sire?"

Harry nodded before looking over at Horn. He'd made up his mind. Logically speaking, there was one way he could facilitate the siege with minimal Northern casualties. Well, really, there were a few...but just the one that really appealed to him.

Behind him, Astoria groaned as she recognized the look on his face.

"Brigadier," he spoke up suddenly, still gazing at the map. "I'm going to need a loudspeaker."

* * *

Harry was well aware that more than a few of the soldiers, and his own personal bodyguards — including the usually unflappable Astoria — were probably thinking he was nuts right now.

Standing on the central bridge over the Loire River, beyond even the protection of the Northern barricades and his troops, Harry stood alone as he hefted up a loudspeaker and repeated his offer to the stunned French defenders on the other side.

"I say again!" he spoke confidently, the device magnifying his voice by several magnitudes...while two gigantic fire constructs, courtesy of Fiendfyre, flanked him — kept just cool enough not to melt the bridge he was standing on."I am King Henry of the Northern Sun, known as Hellfire! I would like to discuss your immediate surrender...preferably _before_ I decide to burn Tours to the ground!"

He briefly heard the sound of flesh hitting flesh from behind him, and nearly grinned as he guessed that it was probably Astoria smacking her forehead in exasperation. As loyal as she was to him, Astoria nonetheless retained much of her dry and sarcastic attitude — something he rather enjoyed rattling on occasion.

As for the defenders, no one fired a single round at him. Absolute silence met his declaration, and he was willing to bet he'd stunned them into that silence. He couldn't blame them — what sort of monarch would've been this dumb?

Where most people would've seen empty bragging, however, Harry knew he could back up every word. _Anyone_ familiar with his military service records knew he could back up his boast. And now, these muppets knew he had the magical ability to summon fire constructs to back it up. But what they assumed is that he _wouldn't_. After all, the Northern Sun had played nice so far, keeping as much of the French cities they conquered relatively intact.

But therein lay their mistake.

Harry had enough of playing nice. He was absolutely fed up with holding back his forces, and seeing rows and columns of body bags leave for home, to be cried over by relatives who would in turn demand to know why their son or daughter was killed. And the only answer his government could give was that they were heroes for serving their country, and their death was regrettable.

But obviously not regrettable enough to warrant wartime policy change.

Well, that ended now. The enemy had struck at his capital. They had struck at him, his wife, and daughter. They had made a mockery of the ideals the Northern Sun stood for, and by their actions they had shown that they did not respect him.

That ended now.

"If I don't hear an answer within the next sixty seconds, I will assume you will not cooperate!" he announced sternly over the loudspeaker, as the constructs — both snakes — began to flick their fiery tongues. "Do not waste your lives any further. Surrender now and you will be treated well."

Silence.

Harry sighed as he lowered the loudspeaker. At least he'd complied with Sirius' request to show some leniency. Bringing up a hand, he tapped on his communicator and keyed it to Horn's frequency. "Brigadier, on my signal, wait sixty seconds and then initiate a full scale attack along the entire Loire riverbank."

"_Understood, sire._"

Harry kept his gaze firmly ahead, counting down the seconds he'd generously offered the French defenders to consider his proposal. If no one responded, one way or another, within twenty seconds, he'd have to act in a not-so-courteous manner.

The sound of sporadic gunfire across the bank caught his attention, though he felt nothing fly by or saw any bullets his his personal shield — he wasn't so dumb as to _not_ have that up, after all. Slowly, the rate of gunfire across the riverbank increased, until he picked up some movement a few dozen meters away, near the HMG nests.

Muzzle flashes and sharp popping noises rang out, and Harry could see members of the defensive positions moving about, dimmed shouting masked by the sound of automatic gunfire. Behind him, he heard his men get into position, the actions of the French defenders confusing them.

Then, out of one of the defensive positions, a lone French soldier, wielding a pistol and drenched in blood, ran out, his arms up in a fashion that didn't need any translating — he was surrendering. Yet, he only managed to take a few steps towards the bridge before another sharp crack resounded, followed by the man's chest exploding.

Sniper fire.

Harry heard swearing from behind him, and he was mildly tempted to join in, though he kept his calm as he basked in the success of his strategy.

His ploy had worked.

He knew that while there had to be devoted believers within the defenders' ranks, there also had to be pragmatists and cowards. No army was ever without either. Given the choice between a fiery death and good treatment as a prisoner of war, thus, it became a no-brainer that he should seek to exploit this vulnerability in morale.

More importantly, he knew he could rely on the devoted believers to react violently to defections.

As he expected, the rate of gunfire behind enemy ranks increased yet again, this time slowly spreading east and west along the riverbank. To his left, he spied a couple of French soldiers climb up to the roof of one of the buildings, creep up to a nook in the corner, and dragged out another soldier — from the angle, Harry assumed this was the man who'd killed the defecting Frenchman — before tossing him over the edge.

"Hold your fire," he ordered the men behind him for good measure as they watched this insane series of events from the safety of their barricades.

"_Holy shite..._" he heard Horn swear absently as they watched three men run out of one of the buildings, followed soon by four more who began shooting at their former comrades.

Harry's smile was grim, but triumphant. He had fully committed himself to setting Tours alight upon arriving here, but had reconsidered when he realized what a golden opportunity this could be to truly crush French morale. After all, if their ranks managed to collapse, despite being supplied by the central French forces, then the morale drop would be significant.

All it really took was for them to realize how hilariously outgunned they were, and common sense would prevail...most of the time.

He smiled as a couple of white flags began fluttering out of windows, and more than a few French soldiers left the buildings with their hands up, looking extraordinarily afraid of the huge fiery constructs flanking Harry.

Turning his back towards the barricade, Harry shot them a self-satisfied smile before motioning them forward. "Gentlemen, please take that city." he motioned behind him.

A moment of silence answered him before a building roar of approval drowned any other noise on the bridge as the Northern forces swarmed forth.

* * *

_**Tours, May 20, 2017...**_

"Gabrielle Delacour, we meet at last."

Gabrielle swallowed nervously despite standing a good thirty feet from her host, the one and only King of the Northern Sun, Henry I. The man was slouching in a high-backed chair they'd no doubt pilfered from some wannabe aristocratic fop's manor. Yet, despite his lackadaisical posture, the way he stared at her over his entwined fingers made her feel afraid.

_Very_ afraid.

And why wouldn't he, really? Here was the man who had conquered Tours with nary a shot fired upon his arrival. It had taken the Northern forces a good three weeks to even take hold of the southern half of the city, and their King had just waltzed up to the French positions, scared the living crap out of them, and managed to prompt the surrender of roughly half the defending garrison.

Despite that, he looked — if looks were the judge of _anything_ — like your average thirty-year old. His mop of raven hair looked about as uncombed as one might've expected of someone who hadn't quite finished maturing, his dazzling green eyes reflected youthful curiosity and eagerness, and his very build spoke of countless years performing strenuous work.

But in spite of that, he was still the most dangerous man she'd ever met.

Instinctively, she took a knee before Henry, not exactly sure what the Northern custom was for greeting the King. The people outside the room had been most unhelpful with that — no doubt expecting her to make a fool of herself.

"We don't kneel in the North," Henry informed her simply, raising an eyebrow as he witnessed this scene. At his side, Astoria, clad in her impeccably neat Military Mage uniform, snorted in amusement.

Pinking up from embarrassment, Gabrielle was quick to get back to her feet and bow, this time finding no commentary forthcoming. Thankful to have redressed her gaffe, she ventured an upward glance at Henry, who seemed completely immune to her Veela charms. Then again, the guards outside had been remarkably strong-willed as well, as were those in here.

The King watched her silently, his eyes critically analysing her every move and feature. Was he judging her worth, her appearance? Trying to read the monarch was like trying to get a straight answer out of a bloody sphinx!

"Gabrielle Delacour," Harry finally spoke, calmly, powerfully. He hadn't moved an inch, yet it almost felt like she had a two ton weight on her shoulders as he carefully regarded her. "You saved the members of Task Force Guardian that were stranded in Chiny after they saved my wife."

Was that a question? A statement? She couldn't tell, so she gave a slow, respectful nod. "Yes, Your Majesty," she carefully said.

"You have my thanks," he told her as he unclasped his hands and laid them lazily on the chair's armrests. "Redemption did a great favour to the Northern Sun and its allies in rescuing Guardian."

"I merely did what was right, sire," she said slowly, knowing that deep down, she was half-lying. In truth, while saving Guardian _had_ been the right thing to do, she had also selfishly calculated that having the Northern Sun in her debt could be beneficial, in the long run.

"I doubt that," Harry told her calmly, not a trace of anger in him, despite obviously having realized she had an agenda behind her actions. "If I'm not mistaken, and I don't think I am in this case, you cooperated with us in exchange for a favour. So..." he waved a hand at her. "Out with it."

Gabrielle swallowed. She had so much she could ask for right now, so much she could demand in return for putting herself and her people in danger for eight Northern soldiers. But when weighed against each other, every one of her demands seemed titanic in importance! How could she possibly choose one over the other?

A moment of silence passed before the king began to chuckle, while all else in the room remained still. "It's hard, isn't it?" he mused out loud, prompting Gabrielle to afford glancing up at him for a second before setting her gaze back on the floor. "Without a set plan, it's so very hard to pick and choose what's more important to you _right now_."

Gabrielle pinked up. He got her, well and true. Had he faced such a dilemma before? Was that why he'd asked for her presence? To show her what lack of direction she had?

Harry sighed as he leaned on one fist, looking quite bored with the proceedings. "Here's why you can't choose, Miss Delacour," he told her simply. "You have no endgame. You have no goal beyond 'bringing down the government.' Once that's accomplished, what next? Will you take over supreme command? Will you hold elections? How do you guarantee your people's freedom, if the electorate will just elect the same legislators and leaders as before? If that happens, would you rise up in arms, in a never-ending cycle of violence?"

Gabrielle swallowed. He was right, damnit. As enamored as she was with her cause, and as enamored as all her subordinates were with the romantic aspect of fighting for justice and liberty, she had nothing beyond the idea of bringing the French government to its knees. She liked to think that part of the reason for this was because she didn't expect to survive the fight, or that she'd just quietly retire to the countryside...but how realistic was that? Could she leave Redemption cold turkey once they achieved their goal? _Would_ she rise up in arms once she succeeded?

She had no answers, and now a hell of a lot more questions.

Enthralled by her thoughts as she was, she never realized that the king had exchanged looks with his bodyguard and then gotten up, walking towards her. Such was the magnitude of her self-reflection that she only realized he had come near her when he grabbed her by the arms and prompted her to look up at him in surprise.

"I am going to help you, Miss Delacour," he informed her with a sly smile. "If you're willing, I want Redemption to join us in our goal: a united Europe."

Gabrielle practically stepped back as she reeled from the words. A united Europe? Preposterous! A pipe dream! The stuff of ideologue's dreams and coffee house banter, but never a real possibility for them!

"That's...impossible!" she practically gasped out as she wriggled out of his grasp and stepped back. "It's a fantasy! No one's been able to bring the European nations together for longer than a few years!"

"Yet the ETO stands stronger than ever," Astoria noted wryly as she remained by the king's chair, her fingers visibly rubbing the handle of her wand, in case Gabrielle tried anything funny.

"An alliance doomed to failure!" Gabrielle insisted.

The king shrugged, however, much to Gabrielle's frustration. How could such a powerful man, such a rational man, not see the inviability of his own designs? "Perhaps," he admitted. "But I'm willing to bet I can do it."

Gabrielle could've scoffed...and probably been killed for it. Still, it sounded ridiculous. She'd agreed to cooperate with the Northern Sun's invasion because it gained her the fastest path to bringing down the hated central government. However, to go beyond that and claim to be able to unite Europe? If he was such a dreamer, then he wasn't as worthy of respect as she imagined.

"What I'm offering, Miss Delacour, is going to happen, with or without your help," the king informed her with a simple, confident smile. "When France falls, and they _will_ fall, they will be inducted into the ETO in time, and then into our little European nation. The people here will acclaim the birth of a European empire whether you think it's feasible or not. All I'm doing is giving you the chance to be part of that."

"Why?" she asked suspiciously.

The monarch shrugged. "That's up to you," he said. "Do you want to become an icon of hope for your people in other countries? Or a war hero to inspire millions? A politician, to make sure the rights of all magical folk are respected? The possibilities under the Sun are endless, Miss Delacour. All I'm doing is giving Redemption the chance to seize them."

She had to admit, the offer was tempting. So very tempting. So far, the North and its allies had been very respectful of the conquered peoples of France, and had been helping the persecuted magical folks escape the country for years...

But more importantly, this was giving her direction. A goal. Something to look forward to long after the fight in France was over.

"I..." she hesitated. Could she really make this call? Could she push her subordinates into swearing allegiance to a foreign king? It seemed...treasonous. "I..."

"Your people love you, Miss Delacour," the king noted astutely, silently thanking the heavens for the SIS' psych report on the Redemption leader. Captain Price's meetings with her were proving invaluable. "They rely on you to make the right decision."

That sent her over the edge. Sighing and slumping her shoulders in defeat, she nodded. "I...accept." she mumbled. "Redemption will disband and join the Northern Sun."

Harry smiled magnanimously at her and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, expertly calculated to show a sign of solidarity, even where there was none. "You have made the right decision, Miss Delacour. For it, the fall of France will come quicker, and with much less blood to be paid."

Astoria nodded by the king's chair, her wand slowly retracting back into the folds of her uniform, the miniscule act also prompting several hidden snipers from drawing their sights away from the leader of Redemption. Had she made a wrong move, or the wrong decision, Redemption would've faced a much bloodier end.

There would be no more mistakes on their end; the North would brook no further threats.

* * *

_**Orleans, France, June 31, 2017...**_

"Forward!"

Harry shouted the order imperiously as the building halting the Northern advance exploded in a violent exothermic outburst of fire, concrete, and human remains. With a rising cry, the Northern troops barricaded behind fallen chunks of concrete jumped over their cover and charged the suddenly exposed enemy positions, superior firepower soon prompting the defenders to call for a retreat and fall back to their next defensive point.

The fall of Tours had been unexpected.

The French, assured of the fact that General Swift's turn southwards meant that the Northern push towards Paris had stalled, were thus taken completely off guard when Tours fell to a much smaller force. While rumors had worked overtime to attribute the stunning victory to magic, or a massive bomb, or other possible catalysts, it nonetheless brought about new urgency to the French defense as the noose tightened around Paris.

Especially when news filtered in that Swift and the Spanish forces had linked up and were now spearing their way north through Bourgogne, racing towards Paris and attempting to bypass Orleans altogether.

Taking the central cities, however, would not be easy. Everyone in the Northern-led alliance knew that. Unlike the peripheral cities, the inner cities of France would likely be garrisoned by the most devoted and loyal soldiers the French could muster, not to mention any pro-government partisans who rose up in arms. A few miles out from these cities, it was unlikely to find any friendly faces anymore.

And it wasn't just the south. From the northern front, Generals Humboldt and Longbottom, along with their ETO allies, had begun a massive push for Paris, piling on the pressure for the beleaguered French defenders, who already had to deal with ammunition shortages and obsolete weaponry.

And the North wasn't making it easy on them. Inspired by the actions of Task Force Guardian, who had passed into something of a myth-like state for the Allied forces, the Northern troops became much more aggressive as they launched attack after attack — all carefully planned, naturally — on the French defenses.

In two months, the ETO had managed to push all French forces into the tight circle of their inner cities, and even these were now facing imminent defeat.

Two pops by his side informed Harry that the Military Mage backup he'd demanded had arrived. Looking to his flanks, he nodded as noted their nametags. "Icebreaker, Avalanche," he greeted the two mages, who bowed their heads and thumped their chest in respect.

"Sire," both man and woman intoned.

Harry pointed towards his 11 and 2 o'clock. "There are enemy positions along the flanks of the main road. Too hard to displace; I want you two to flatten that area."

"Yes, sire!" both mages shouted before Disapparating. Within moments, gigantic explosions in both marked areas went up as the mages got to work, amidst the cheers of onlooking Northern soldiers.

Astoria appeared at his side now, holding a hand to her ear. "Sire, the tank squadron along the riverbank is being stalled by unexpectedly heavy enemy resistance. They're asking for help." she reported, her own uniform torn here and there and her face muddied with blood and dirt, much like him.

Harry nodded grimly and raised a hand to his ear. "We need air support along the riverbank," he ordered over the comm., paying no heed as a sniper bullet hit his personal shield and disintegrated. Astoria narrowed her eyes and quickly disappeared. "Get the Lynxes in place!"

A minor explosion later, Astoria was again by his side as they jogged towards the main advance, noting Military Mages with white bands around their left arm handling the Northern casualties. Medic Mages; an innovation in the ranks of the Mages implemented after Harry had read the After-Action Report of Task Force Guardian and noted that they could've done much better with a dedicated magical mage on hand. While their own medic had served to keep the wounded alive and fighting, their overall effectiveness could've been better off with magical medicine on hand.

"_Vive la France!_" he and Astoria heard someone shout before the cry went up along their left, where a group of formerly dead soldiers rose up and charged at him and the soldiers around him, antiquated World War I bolt action rifles in hand. How desperate must these creatures be?

Harry said nothing, though his soldiers became alarmed. Merely raising a hand in their direction, palm outstretched, he watched as they tried to bayonet him and Astoria before blasting them away with fire, vaporizing them in an instant.

"Was that necessary, sire?" asked Astoria quietly as she saw mere ashes spreading in the wind where the soldiers had once stood.

Harry remained quiet. "They wouldn't have surrendered," he stated simply as he moved on, nonetheless quite troubled. "You saw the look in their eyes, Astoria. They were willing to die for their country. Trying to capture them would've probably ended up in one of ours getting hurt."

Astoria was silent as she followed her king, still looking uncertain as she glanced back at the black marks where the fanatic soldiers had stood moments before being vaporized. She'd killed and seen war, sure, but the sort of senseless suicide charge those men had performed was beyond her experience.

Larger explosions sounded out in the distance, right around where he'd sent Icebreaker and Avalanche. From the look of it, the mages had encountered further opposition — well within the expected parameters of the situation.

"Let's go," Harry ordered solemnly as he sped up his pace. Astoria lingered for a moment, looking again to the place where the dead soldiers had charged them, before nodding, steeling herself, and following her King into battle once more.

* * *

_**Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, July 3, 2017...**_

"We cannot be expected to make those who were our enemies, our equals!"

Sirius' eyes flared as he listened to the opposition MP from the _very_ radical Northern Dawn Party excoriate the government for its announced policy to offer amnesty to the French soldiers who surrendered. While still small, the NDP nonetheless had undergone a remarkable rate of expansion as the war continued to sway in the ETO's favour. Unlike other pro-ETO parties, however, the NDP insisted that the North alone had been the real victors of the war, and sidelined the importance of the nation's allies.

"This government," the speaker continued as he motioned towards the silently stewing members of the government's own Union Party, "would have us relinquish our rightful place as victors in a war we did not ask for! In a conflict we attempted to stave off! And now that victory lies within our grasp, we would throw it away and welcome those who were our bitterest foes in a naive embrace!"

The speaker leaned forward and pointed right at Sirius, who scowled right back. "And here, the eminent Prime Minister, the architect of this cowardly plan! Regardless of the efforts he made to bring us together, is this not perhaps the greatest sign that the time has come for new leadership? Is it not time perhaps to allow this great man to retire, and leave the titanic task of governance to fresher minds?"

Roars of approval and disapproval drowned out coherent speech in the chamber as members of Sirius' party and even some of the opposition rose up in protest, while those who agreed with the speaker subsequently rose to fire right back.

While Sirius would've loved to say that this wasn't a typical issue, he couldn't; not really. Ever since it had become far more obvious that the war would probably end before the year's end, debate had stirred up regarding what would happen to France once the conflict was done.

While all agreed on the fact that the French Republic was done, the way Reconstruction and admission into the Northern Sun, and then the ETO would be done was a _far _more contentious issue. For the government, the only feasible and reasonable option was a moderate occupation force followed by an aggressive propaganda campaign to basically rewrite the French mentality towards both the Northern Sun and European unity. With any luck, they would become full Northern citizens in half a decade...though very few held out any realistic hopes of that.

For the opposition's more radical membership, however, punitive measures were the name of the game. Inciting the populace not to forget the unwarranted declaration of war upon the Northern Sun and its allies, the NDP and its cohorts were quick to denounce any indication towards moderation as treason...or, in Sirius' case, as senility.

Which was preposterous, of course, as Sirius was barely pushing 60, and in mage terms, that meant around like 45, especially since he took good care of himself. Hell, bloody Dumbledore was still kicking about, miraculously enough...though granted, his mental faculties had all but vanished, according to his sources in Albion.

But, at the same time, Sirius had to admit that he wasn't a spry young man anymore. 60 was 60, regardless of how young he felt. While that just put him in line with most politicians, the more he aged the more the opposition would take shots at his lifespan.

Well, all that really meant was that he now had to work harder to show these upstart pricks who was still in charge.

As the clamour died down, Sirius slowly got to his feet and stepped up to the government side of the lecterns, poised and calm. His side of the benches seemed tense and coiled, as though readying themselves to pounce on the opposition's throats. A notion he wasn't entirely unsympathetic towards, but could ill afford. He was Michael White to these people, First Prime Minister of the Kingdom of the Northern Sun. One of the founding fathers of the new nation, in point of fact.

And founders didn't fly off the handle at a little ribbing.

"I must apologize to the honorable delegate," he started, still keeping his poise. "For I was unaware that we had passed a limit on the age of our politicians. If so, I imagine I shall be accompanied into retirement by a great deal of my opposition colleagues," he jibed, eliciting a laugh from his side and a few chuckles from the opposition.

"Age is irrelevant, ladies and gentlemen," he continued firmly. "It is irrelevant to governance, so long as your faculties are within your power, and it is irrelevant to this topic: the topic of the fate of the French people once the war is over." he reminded his audience as he leveled a hard stare at the opposition. There were a few there who agreed with him on this issue, but he knew there were many more who either sided with the NDP or wanted a longer integration process.

"This war will likely be over by the end of the year," he said. "Our sons and daughters will return to us then, bloodied and victorious. We can erect all the statues we want and beat our chests until our hearts give out, but we must not forget the consequences of our actions. We cannot forget or sideline the people of France."

"It's true," he quickly cut in as the opposition began to jeer at him. "It's true that we were not the aggressors. It's true we were on the defense. But is it not the mark of a benevolent man, or woman," he conceded with a nod to one of his female colleagues, "to cast away grudges and work towards reconciliation? Are we to be known as a nation so petty we are unable to work past the transgression of a nation effectively returned to the stone age?"

Applause answered his rhetorical questions, both from his side, and from the rebel minority from the opposition. "As we stand here, on the brink of a new chapter in the history of Europe, we should not be drowned in our own hate, but think on the words of the last King of the United Kingdom," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "We must break the cycle, ladies and gentlemen. We must change Europe and _avoid_ the mistakes of the past, and we can do that!" he insisted. "We have done what the honorable delegate," he motioned towards the man who'd disrespected him, "has been consistently unable to do: provide a peace plan that's feasible, cost-effective, and will give us access to the sum total of France's wealth, both material and human!"

He leaned on the lectern and turned to look at his side. "What more could we give?" he asked rhetorically. "What more can we do? If we see the French people as our enemies, we will be at war again within a decade!" he pointed out as he turned back towards the opposition. "Do we crush them? Do we kill them all, as was nearly done to the Death Eaters?" he pushed. "Or do we become the bigger nation, and show them the way?"

Riotous applause answered him as he took a step back from the lectern, indicating he was done. Whether it was genuine or just party solidarity, he didn't know, nor did it matter. If the opposition was of the opinion that the entire government was behind this, their rebels might have more courage to speak in favour of the government's measure.

Walking back to his seat, Sirius sat down with a plop even as he was patted on the shoulder or congratulated, even as the NDP member who'd done the veiled insults stewed angrily in his seat.

* * *

_**Fort Drake, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, July 13, 2017...**_

"I'm just saying, how hard could it be to get him to agree to a vacation?"

Elicia scoffed as she kept her eyes stuck to the microscope, the circuitry under the lens requiring deeply precise handling. The smell of molten metal filled her nostrils as she slowly put together what she hoped would be another useful invention for the war effort.

Now if only her colleague, Dr. Ansen would follow her lead on this.

"You clearly don't know my husband, Jeremy," she noted wryly as she continued working. She held out a hand. "Tweezers."

Her assistant obliged her as Dr. Ansen scoffed in turn behind her, the sound of his own contribution to the experiment — a vastly reduced coilgun accelerator — hummed to life. "He's the _king_, Elicia, dear. Can't he just...I don't know..._order_ a national holiday or two?"

Elicia giggled as she switched soldering guns for a more precise one. "Harry's too stubborn for that," she pointed out, performing the quick soldering work before handing over the soldering gun and taking back her old one. "And he hates vacations. Says he gets bored. He's much easier to deal with when he's tired out from work."

Except, she noted privately, that these days getting tired could mean getting him killed. She was ill at ease with her own decision to let him wander off to the battlefield again, and more than once she'd deeply regretted her words to him that day.

On the other hand, she rationally understood that it had been the most logical way to quickly finish this war and get on with their lives.

"How's the prototype doing?" she asked, eager to get away from this topic. Jeremiah was astute enough to realize this and reluctantly complied.

"As well as we expected," he informed her blandly before sighing and turning to look at her back. "Ellie, this prototype is perfect. We've fixed the faults from the past fifteen variations, Athena," he motioned towards the silent A.I. hologram watching them work, "upgraded the OS to make the targeting system work, and _Patil_," he motioned to their half-Indian colleague, "has been whipping her team into overtime trying to get the whole to work together." he pointed out before sighing. "So why are we still on Project TIGER?"

Elicia was silent as she continued her work, prompting Ansen to sigh explosively as he gave it up as a bad job and turned back to his work. Elicia was always like this, dodging the main question whenever she didn't want people to know what she really thought. Which was amusing, in a way, as the one person who _always_ heard what she _really_ thought was her husband...and he usually ended up regretting poking _that_ tiger, from what Ansen had heard through the rumor mill.

"TIGER can't just be good, Jeremy," Elicia spoke up softly then, catching his attention and Athena, while Padma continued haranguing her colleagues as they ran simulation after simulation. "It's got to be flawless."

"_Logically speaking, flawless is an inherently impossible concept, Doctor Eisenheim_," Athena pointed out rather unhelpfully.

"Then as near to it as we can make it," Elicia amended with a slight chuckle as she kept working on her microchip.

"Why?" Ansen asked, crossing his arms as he regarded his much younger colleague. "We've done so much work for the military already, why's this one worthy of so much of our rather important attention?"

"Because this weapon has to crush the spirit of the enemy before it even kills them," Elicia stated simply as she finished the touches on her chip and finally stood up straight, holding the finished product with a pair of tongues for Ansen to observe. "It's as much a weapon of intimidation as it is of killing, Jeremy. Like a tiger's roar." she pointed out with a sad smile. Obviously, building weapons wasn't sitting well with her, but as she'd promised her husband, she was working nonstop on making the Northern Sun's military arsenal untouchable.

Turning towards Padma's team, she held up the chip and smiled at her colleagues. "Padma!" she called out, prompting said colleague to turn to face her. Elicia softly dropped the chip into Padma's hand and smiled. "I think you'll find the simulations will go about much better once you put this little gem in place."

Padma frowned as she rose it to eye level and checked it out. "What is it?" she asked, curious. Electronics had quickly become her favorite Muggle subject, but even she was unable to figure out what a microchip did from just its outward appearance.

"It'll automatically compensate for the recoil," Elicia informed her as she went to her computer station and booted up a program. "Or it will...in ten seconds, once the program's been activated. Athena?"

The A.I.'s holographic image glowed for a brief second before it spun. "_Program verified, Doctor. The device should do as designed._"

Elicia smiled at the A.I. as though it were a good pet and then sent the program over to the receiving antenna built into the chip. "There. That should do it."

Ansen, for his part, frowned. "I don't recall seeing any calculations saying our recoil systems were faulty..." he noted thoughtfully. When had Elicia come across the problem?

"They weren't," Elicia informed him as she opened up another file on her computer and quickly began inputting information relating to another project she had in mind. "...if we assumed the prototype's testing parameters would remain constant on an active battlefield. I extrapolated our calculations to reflect typical battlefield-induced stress on weaponry, and found our calculations had been quite optimistic."

"Why not just reprogram the system, then?" Ansen pointed out. "Why create a new microchip?"

"Because it's also a kill chip," she informed him, affording him a sly smile as she glanced back before returning to her work. "The...incident taught me that our technology is incredibly more vulnerable than we assumed. We need a way, a standalone way, to disable every valuable part of our technology to prevent it from falling into enemy hands. That chip," she nudged her head in Padma's direction, "will do that. If the system goes dark, it'll fry every system in a heartbeat."

"Wouldn't that trap the soldiers inside?" Ansen asked a little warily, eyeing Padma as their colleague handed the chip over to the install crew.

"Manual releases, remember?" Elicia pointed out. "And before you ask, it also works like a dead man's switch. If the chip goes dark, so does every system. If you tamper with it, it fries everything. I'm not taking any chances."

Ansen smiled wryly. "So I'm noticing. You've got quite the dark mind there, Elicia, my dear."

The thought gave Elicia pause. Was he right? Was she, in fact, going down the very mental path her husband had? She liked to think she remained his conscience...yet here she was, building weapons that would likely cause the deaths of thousands. Had she turned hypocrite without realizing it?

No. No, no, no. Elicia pushed away the thought as she returned to her work, feverishly typing away as though to keep her mind occupied on other matters. She wasn't turning her back on her principles...she was merely adjusting them to reality! She hated killing. She hated war. She did...she _did_.

This was for Katerina. All of it was for her baby girl. As long as the Northern Sun remained threat-able, they would never have a moment of peace. Of true peace, without assassins, or kidnappers, or maniacs getting _near_ them.

For Katerina.

...Right?

* * *

_**Berlin, Germany, July 17, 2017...**_

"_Hör mal, Franz. Ich weiß, dass Sie hochwertiges Kriegsgerät bunkern._"

Josefina frowned as she listened in on the conversation, her team just as quiet. "He's saying...he knows Heider has his hands on military equipment," she murmured to the recorder in her team.

"_Alles, was wir brauchen, sind ein paar Lieferungen, um in Frankreich einen_ _Mords Krach zu Veranstalten. Ist ja nicht so, als hätte ihre Regierung da_ _etwas dagegen, oder?_"

She narrowed her eyes. That slimy asshole. "All he needs is a few more shipments to raise some hell in France...and that the German government doesn't really have a problem with this."

"Bastards," hissed one of her teammates as he listened in.

_"Davon möchte ich nichts wissen._"

"Heider says he doesn't know anything about that," noted her colleague. "Think he's telling the truth?"

Josefina snorted. "I think Heider's a son of a bitch and an opportunistic asshole, but he's also a follower and a coward. No way he's smuggling military equipment without the German government's knowledge."

There was laughter as the two shared the joke of Heider's comment, causing Josefina to really wish she could just strut outside and shoot them both in the head. Unfortunately, they needed both scumbags alive. The Frenchman Heider was talking to was a known associate of the DGSE, and also the sole reason they'd managed to find the link to Heider, a well-known petty crook turned gun smuggler following the Blackout. And while they _could_ just kidnap both and tear the information out of their minds, SIS HQ had ordered the operation to stay aloof and seek out every government link to the guns found in Operation Guardian.

It had been considered important enough to warrant Josefina coming to Berlin herself thanks to her language skills, all the while posing as the Northern Ambassador's new security chief. Fortunately, the listening post was remotely managed from the embassy grounds themselves, so she didn't have to go out personally and basically announce that Nightshade was back.

"_Güterverkehrszentrum Hafen. Zwölf Uhr statt. Vier Tage. Seien Sie pünktlich._"

Josefina's attention snapped back to the conversation. "That's a place," she recognized, turning to one of the analysts and pointing at her. "Find it. Güterverkehrszentrum Hafen. He's going to be there in four days, at noon."

"I'll get a team ready to go bug it," offered one of her colleagues, which she confirmed with a nod. "Think this is our big break?"

Josefina shrugged as she leaned over one of her analysts and eyed the information being downloaded. "Not likely. Not until Heider gets in contact with his government sources."

"Maybe he will this time?"

Josefina snorted. "Heider _never_ makes contact. Hell, we don't even know how he gets the money to his partners! Until we can do that, this operation's never going to end..."

"Miss Santos," someone called for her then, prompting her to look towards the stairwell that led back up to the embassy proper. A young man in a rather fetching vest was looking right at her — the Ambassador's secretary. "Ambassador Williams wants a word before we leave for the Ministry dinner. It's about the press releases accusing us of espionage."

How hypocritical, she mused. He wanted her to tell him how best to deny accusations of espionage, knowing full well that underneath his embassy was a fully manned SIS station. But then, espionage thrived on the hypocrisy of politicians!

"Tell him I'll be right there," she told the secretary before turning back to the station chief. "I want a team deployed to the meeting spot to scout it out. Remember to stay as inconspicuous as possible; Heider isn't new at this, he's likely to have lookouts."

The chief nodded. "Right, we'll have to engineer a situation to make our presence less obvious. Maybe a fire?"

Josefina cringed a little. "Eh...too obvious. Think outside the box. Look into every company _besides_ the target building. Find out what issues they've had in the past, then make them an issue again."

"But bigger?" asked the chief with a knowing grin as Josefina walked towards the stairs. She paused for a moment and gave him a sly, coy smile.

"Much."

* * *

_**Versailles, France, August 3, 2017...**_

"All units, hold position."

Ford watched in tense silence as the column moving through the town of Versailles edged by, their stance relaxed as they moved through the historical area, secure in the knowledge of their own safety.

He couldn't blame them; insofar as every nation of the world was concerned, Versailles, being a mere 20 kilometers from the center of Paris, was very much a French stronghold. Its palace, in fact, had become a sort of icon for the French defenders, who saw it as a symbol of French ascendancy.

It was Ford's job to prove them wrong.

The fallout from Operation Guardian hadn't been all bad, despite the horrible revelations about German and Russian involvement. For the former Task Force Guardian, it'd meant recognition, and more importantly — innovation.

Field Marshal Speirs, specifically, had noted the amazing way in which Guardian, a mere 9-man extraction team, had been able to hold off a force literally tens of times larger. When that was brought up later in a meeting of the various Generals in charge of the French Campaign, it was discussed at length until a proposal was formally drafted — to form a branch of the military, a Special Operations unit, which would be comprised of the most effective teams, both normal and mages, in the armed forces.

And so the Special Shock Infantry was born, with Fireteam Guardian as its flagship unit, which was promptly handed over to Ford for command, along with a promotion to First Sergeant...which thankfully was more of a formality, since he might've ordinarily been taken away from his section.

And for their first mission? Sow terror amongst the French forces by hitting them right where they thought they were safest.

"This is Guardian Lead," he mumbled into his comm, again despite the fact that his tactical helmet was effectively soundproof. "All fireteams, hold position. Wait until my go."

The communication icons of the leaders of Fireteams Castle, Spearhead, Viper, and Sabre all winked green in acknowledgement, prompting him to smile grimly as he switched frequencies to that of Petrovsky.

"Spectre, what's the situation?" he asked as he shifted a little bit, bumping into King. The youngest member of Guardian snapped his head back towards his CO for a moment, expecting an order, before realizing none was forthcoming and turning back to watching the column of French soldiers marching at the foot of the hill.

"_Five hundred plus Frogs._" Spectre informed him briefly. "_Wheeled artillery. Ammo wagons._"

Fifty versus a hundred. Insane odds...yet just the sort of thing the SSI had been formed for. To their advantage, they had been Magidropped into the area, building on the insane stunt that had made General Wood famous throughout the armed forces. By performing a HALO jump without parachutes and in the cover of night, the five fireteams had used slowing charms to safely touch down with very little error in landing zones. Within minutes, they had managed to take their predetermined positions, and were now waiting for the opportune moment to take down the enemy column.

Ford nodded as he processed the information, once again keying in the other unit leads. "Viper, Sabre, on my go, hit the ammo wagons. Go loud and flashy — I want them disoriented." he ordered, receiving two green winks on his HUD. "Spearhead, hit the artillery crews. Make sure they can't bring them to bear. Castle, you're with us — we're hitting the infantry proper," he warned. Two more winks answered him.

Good, all in place.

That just left one minor issue to get through. "Meteor, what's your twenty?" he mumbled into his mike. "Our side is all green, waiting to go."

"_Ready to light it up on your go, John,_" answered the familiar voice of the only mage he could honestly say he'd bled next to. "_Flare and Wave are getting antsy._"

Ford smirked within his helmet, affording a glance over his tree trunk cover to the other side of the road, where the three SSI-assigned mages would be hiding. "Tell them not to get their knickers in a twist, yeah?"

There was a soft giggle before the line went dead. Cradling his weapon, Ford continued his silent vigil of the convoy, waiting for the moment to come. He didn't rightly know _when_ it would come, but he knew that the moment he saw it, he'd spring the trap on the unsuspecting Frenchmen.

"_Any day now, sarge,_" King whined as he kept his body tightly packed against the trunk. "_I feel my balls shrivelling from age._"

"_I don't think that's age talking there, King,_" Wright noted in amusement.

"_Blow me, Wright._"

"_In your dreams._"

"What part of noise discipline do either of you not get?" Ford asked, himself rather amused, as he kept his stare fixed on the column. From the looks of it, a rather stiff breeze was blowing, judging from the way some of the younger soldiers were shivering. Fortunately for the SSI troops, however, their body armour was charmed to keep them at a nice room temperature.

"_...all of it?_" King offered up with a tone that made Ford _know_ the brat was smirking beneath his polarized visor.

"_Smart ass._" chuckled Liam, further down the line. Glancing that way, he saw Liam rest his precision rifle on top of a tree stump, while Buchanan and Bergstein waited patiently under the cover of a shrub, their shared Light Machine Gun slowly trailing the column.

"_Fuck, sarge,_" Buchanan noted then, making Ford roll his eyes. His team had to be the noisiest commandoes _ever_. "_For once I'm with King on this one. When are we putting these fucking Frogs the fuck down?_"

Trust Buchanan to put things as vulgarly as she could. Still, she had a point. Glancing over his trunk, he saw that at least half of the column had gone by. Perfect. Quickly keying in the rest of the SSI units, he gave a grim smile within his helmet as he rolled to the right and stopped on one knee, keeping his lower half under cover as he trailed the most valuable officer within the column with his telescopic sight.

"All units!" he called out via TEAMCOM, "Engage!"

He fired a single burst, and the officer went down, his head exploding into a fine red mist as the prototype SSI rifles pulverized it. There was a sudden war cry from all along the line as the five SSI teams rose out of cover and fired on the column, their loudspeakers enhancing and distorting their voices in an attempt at psychological warfare to dishearten any opposition.

For the rookies, it worked. The newly minted French conscripts were quick to buckle, but the veterans were far more stoic, quickly restoring order despite the superior power of the SSI's weaponry.

That advantage didn't last long, however, as earthen spikes, fireballs, and icicles suddenly speared out from their opposing flank, quickly dispatching a good dozen troops as the SSI Mages began their bloody work.

He watched from the corner of his eye as Meteor, clad in her deep blue uniform, practically flew out of hiding and landed in the middle of the French column, her closed right fist arched back, ready to strike. Upon landing, much to the enemy's confusion, she hammered her fist into the ground, unbeknownst to them unleashing a powerful shockwave of magic that succeeded in creating a horrifyingly lethal spiral of spikes to impale the soldiers around her. Near the front and rear of the column, Flare and Wave dispatched the soldiers there with equal ferocity, and Ford was hardly surprised to see more than a few charred or frozen corpses flying about.

For his part, however, Ford kept up his precision fire within the quickly panicking French column. They had a deadline on this operation, and they needed to get it over with as quickly as possible. Headquarters had warned that the SSI had about an hour before reinforcements would start trickling in from the nearest checkpoint, at which point they would find themselves quickly overrun if they didn't bug out immediately.

Another high-pitched whine, and another officer fell to the ground, missing a decent chunk of his left lung. Despite its horrible effects, Ford had to admire the stopping power of the brand new Magnetically Accelerated Projectile Rifle, or MAP Rifle. Among the newest prototype weapons handed over by the R&D eggheads back at Fort Drake, the MAP Rifle was basically a MJOLNIR weapons platform made compact. With the only specialized requirement being fresh batteries and small, metallic pellets (which any soldier worth his/her salt could just make in the field with a little ingenuity), the MAP Rifle was possibly the best thing that had happened to the SSI Commando Forces.

"_First Sergeant,_" he heard Fireteam Castle's leader, "_Enemy forces appear to be falling back into the opposing tree line._"

Ford checked his sights and confirmed the information, quickly calling up Meteor.

"Meteor, we've got Frenchies trying to pull out across the tree line. Be a love and put a stop to that, will you?" he asked as he shot down another trooper.

"_On it._"

A remarkable explosion sounded out as Meteor put her gifts to good use, quickly transfiguring the entire opposing tree line into a solid earthen wall, which then proceeded to sprout spikes. Not for the first time, Ford wondered whether that obsession with spikes made Meteor hot...or just downright crazy.

Not that he had much time to ponder on such thoughts, as he ducked in time to avoid the explosion of an RPG round impacting the hill slope, just a few meters from his tree trunk. Yet another piece of good fortune brought about by the Blackout. Without the technology for precision targeting, the French were being forced to basically wing it.

"Spectre, RPG at three o'clock!" he barked, shortly before a soft boom heralded Petrovsky's own rifle — his old one, as he steadfastly refused to change guns — drilled a hole in the offending French soldier's chest. Getting back up, he narrowly avoided getting shot in the visor by stopping his movement with a jerk, then trained his rifle with one hand and fired blindly at the offending trooper, missing them but still forcing them to dive away, giving him time to get back on his knee and resuming fire.

Four explosions resounded further down the column, and Ford managed to glance in time to spot several black armor-clad SSI troopers returning to their position along the slope ridge, fiery carcasses of former ammunition wagons in their wake.

"_Ammo wagons are down._" he heard the CO of Fireteam Sabre grunt in his deep baritone.

"Liam, what's our schedule looking like?" Ford asked as he winked his icon on Sabre Lead's visor.

"_Five minutes till the shite goes up, First Sergeant._"

Ford ducked again as a spray of bullets ripped at his tree trunk cover, showering him in ineffective splinters that bounced off his armour. Didn't make the bullets any less lethal, though.

"All fireteams, prepare to disengage! Meteor, get your arses to the evac point!"

"_Moving!_" Meteor informed him as the explosions amidst the French column ground to a halt, the Mages finally disengaging.

"Covering fire!" Ford barked as he rose to his full height, switched his rifle to full auto, and fired a steady burst into the panicking French forces. Within a second, the rest of Guardian, and the other Fireteams soon after, joined in, sowing further panic as the magnetically accelerated projectiles pierced the French forces like they were paper.

"_Enemy reinforcements incoming from Versailles Palace!_" the CO of Fireteam Castle informed him then. "_Horse-drawn wagons!_"

Ford gnashed his teeth in frustration, still keeping up his steady rate of fire. "Meteor, you out?" he asked.

"_Roger that, John!_"

Ford nodded grimly; time to go, then. "Fireteams Viper, Sabre, Castle, fall back now! Spearhead, you're on rearguard with us!" he ordered as he took a step back. "Guardian, disengage...now!"

Their rate of fire suddenly halted as they began a slow jog back to the evac point, Castle, Viper, and Saber probably moving at full sprint. As with that time in Chiny, Ford could only really hear the sound of his breath as he jogged through the French forests, his boots splashing in mud or grinding down discarded branches without his conscious knowledge as the armour kept him both clean and dry. All he could really see was what the widescreen visor _let_ him see, and while it was less than his non-helmeted perception allowed, it nonetheless was good enough and kept him safe from surprise headshots.

"_Sabre has reached evac point._"

"_Viper has reached evac point._"

"_Castle has reached evac point._"

Ford would've sighed in relief if he wasn't currently in the middle of a jog. With all three Fireteams back at the evacuation point, that meant there was no need for dallying about. "Guardian, Spearhead, we're free and clear! Move to the evac point!" he barked as he sped up his pace, jumping over the fallen trunk of a tree as he broke into full sprint.

"_Ura!_" his fireteam cried out, while Spearhead's CO winked his green icon. Rushing through the forest, Ford couldn't help but think back to Chiny, when he'd been similarly forced to run for it from an enemy force much larger than his. Unlike then, however, he knew he had good men, excellent equipment, and fantastic firepower backing him up. They'd managed to deliver a hard blow to the French forces without any untoward surprises, and it seemed as though everything was going to go alright.

Which, of course, usually meant Murphy's Law kicked in around this point, so his nerves were even higher on edge than before. It was very much within the fortunes of war that near the victory point, some disaster would strike, and Ford didn't want to be taken unawares...not again. Not like Chiny.

"Viper, Castle, Sabre," he hailed on the TEAMCOM. "We are inbound your position from nine o'clock. Check your weapons!"

Three winks answered him in confirmation.

"Spectre, any eyes on the enemy?" he asked his marksman.

Petrovsky was silent for a moment. "_Negative_."

Ford still kept his sigh of relief at bay. That didn't mean anything. For all he knew, the very evac point was an ambush spot. Right now, he had to keep his head in the game until everyone was out safe.

Slowing down as he reached the small clearing, where he could see the members of Castle, Viper, and Sabre holding down the perimeter vigilantly, Ford afforded a small stop to check his rear — an action that saved his life as a round passed right where his head had been just a few seconds ago. The helmet might've stopped it, but there was never any guarantee of that.

"Holy fuck!" he swore as he dropped to the ground, brought up his rifle, and opened fire. "Enemy contact, rear! All units, covering fire!"

Bursts of blue, magnetic light heralded the small storm of MAPs tearing through the forest, until he heard someone scream in the distance. Whoever had taken that potshot at him had probably had their day ruined.

Good. Serves the fucker right.

Slowly getting to his feet, Ford ran to the evac point, tapping the shoulder of one of Fireteam Sabre's troopers on the armoured shoulderpad before coming to a stop in the middle of the clearing, where Meteor and her mages waited.

"You alright?" Meteor asked him as he ground to a halt. Ford fought the urge to remove his helmet then, if only to satisfy the need to wipe his forehead of sweat — which, given the sponge-like pads within his helmet, was actually unnecessary. Instead, he gave her a nod.

"Tosser missed me by an inch," Ford gripped before noticing two SSI troopers wearing Sabre insignia on their left biceps on the ground, their fireteam medic already applying first aid. "Everyone alright over here?" he asked.

Meteor followed his helmet's gaze to the wounded troopers and then nodded at him. "They got dinged after they started their retreat. Should be fine."

Ford nodded before calling up all Fireteam COs. "Alright, we're done here!" he barked. "Gather your men and portkey out!"

Four green winks answered him before the Fireteams began withdrawing to the center of the clearing, where he, the Mages, and the wounded troopers were. Then, after looking at all the SSI troopers there, he nodded and rose a hand to his breastplate, where a dull, yellow geometric sun was placed over their hearts. As the other troopers followed suit, Ford felt a pull to his navel, and suddenly he was gone from the clearing.

Mission accomplished.

* * *

_**Outskirts of Paris, France, September 5, 2017...**_

The end was nigh for the French defenders.

Following the SSI strikes in Versailles, the French forces centered around Paris were thrown into confusion as they reacted to the strike quickly, thinking the ETO had launched a surprise attack on the capital.

Time enough for a _real_ strike to hit the remaining French positions within the major cities still left partially unoccupied.

With every major city now under the command of the Northern Sun and its allies, Harry had thrown another wrench into the French defenders' carefully laid defensive strategy. As the war had raged on, he had noticed that certain French armies had been set up to counter certain Northern armies. In particular, skirmishers were deployed against the flexible Swift, staunch defenders against the implacable Humboldt, Special Forces against the unpredictable Wood, and so forth. The armies still individually retained enough conventional forces to adapt to any situation, but they were also becoming more specialized against their opposing commanders.

That was something that worked both ways, however.

Recognizing this, Harry thus ordered Speirs to enact what he liked to call the Spiral Strategy, under an operation codenamed CRUSHING FIST.

Going against conventional tactics, each of the ETO armies _avoided_ the direct routes to Paris, instead initiating one arm of a spiral that would _eventually_ lead to Paris. The strategy would ensure that the enemy had two choices: chase after the enemy — the more unlikely of possibilities — or rather stay and face an army that was completely different in its attack paradigms.

As expected, the French commanders chose the more rational choice and stayed put.

Unfortunately for them, they were also overwhelmed with the arrival of fresh, new enemy troops who had distinctly different operating idiosyncrasies. In short order, Versailles had fallen, followed soon by Évry, Creteil, and Meaux, leaving Paris standing alone.

The plight of the French armies was worse off, however, by the arrival of the Northern Sun's newest weapon in their arsenal, the Mk1 Tiger MAC Tank. Again cannibalizing Project MJOLNIR's breakthrough in naval main batteries, the MAC Tank terrorized the French forces with both the incredibly deadly projectiles it shot as well as the booming noise with which it did so, much like a tiger's roar.

Though still only a handful of prototypes, Speirs had been thrilled by their effects on the enemy ever since Operation CRUSHING FIST was enacted. Between the devastating effect of their main cannons and the psychologically troubling sound each shot produced, the French forces, despite gallant bravery from many of their soldiers, were time and again routed.

However, in a show of magnanimity, Harry was more than happy to pardon those soldiers who surrendered or were captured, even going so far as to invite them to join the French First Army, which had surrendered around the time of Operation GUARDIAN. Some agreed, some refused, and others just wanted to rejoin their loved ones as civilians. In all cases, the ETO showed great restraint in allowing the French soldiers to do as their ethical code demanded of them.

In point of fact, Orleans had actually been the one city where the most French soldiers had refused the offer to join the French First Army or be discharged. Loyal to the last man, many of these troopers had to be interned at a POW camp near Caen...and yet out of all the French soldiers captured, these were the ones Harry had professed to admire the most.

Harry valued loyalty above all else...except maybe his family. His men, the Liverpudlians, had been loyal to him throughout the Great Reveal, and then the attacks on London and the fracturing of the United Kingdom and its subsequent civil war. They had backed him from the moment he had begun saving their lives with his magic on the field, and that's why it remained his favourite unit, and Liverpool his capital.

As such, the French troopers who had refused to abandon their allegiance to France, in fact shouting "_Vive la France!_" whenever they could within the confines of the POW camp, had his respect. They were patriots and loyal to their nation, much like he expected of his own men.

Once the war ended, Harry would offer them the same chance he gave them once before: join the ETO or be disbanded. If they chose the latter, it would be a crying shame, as it meant that each person who refused would have to be monitored from here on out by the SIS...and possibly disposed of.

For now, though, he had Paris to take, and a war to end.

Smiling at his subordinates as they lined either side of a walkway to his makeshift throne — a plush, comfortable high-backed chair they'd found in some rich ponce's home — he steepled his hands as he considered them all. Each man a loyal subordinate, or a reliable companion from a friendly nation. Each of them had led their armies to victory after victory, with some minor defeats here and there, and they would all share in the glory of their final triumph.

"Paris is at hand, gentlemen...and lady," he stated simply, nodding at Gabrielle as she stood next to Neville, looking somber but determined. Who could blame her? She was about to help foreign armies conquer the capital of her home. "This is not the moment to become overconfident. We must not make a mistake so late in the game. Once the grace period for surrenders is over, you will march into Paris, and you will see its government toppled."

There was a clatter of boots clicking together as his Generals, and belatedly Gabrielle, went to attention and raised a fist to their left pectoral in salute.

"I want our flag flown from the Eiffel Tower. From the Louvre," Harry continued calmly, barely giving notice to their actions. "I want to see it flutter above the Invalides. I want the Tricolor torn down from the Élysée Palace and replaced with the Sun, and our troops marching through the Triumphal Arch. More importantly...I want this war _ended_. Am I understood?" he asked.

There was no hesitation. Everyone knew how much had been sacrificed and paid for this war to come to an end.

"Yes, sir!"

* * *

**_Post-AN: _**_Alright, so after Paris is down with, the next phase of the Northern Sun's plans for Europe will kick in as they recoup their losses, consolidate their gains, and move towards further centralization of the ETO under their leadership. Hope to post it soon!_

_Cheers,_

_MB_


	32. Chapter XXXII: The End of the Republic

**_AN:_** _Yay! New chapter! This one's entirely focused on the fall of Paris, however, so Sirius & co. This is mainly a Gabrielle-Ford-Harry centric chapter. And for those of you who wanted to see Harry torch stuff, that's unfortunately not what's happened here. You'll see why._

_Cheers,_

_Marquis Black_

* * *

_**Paris, France, September 20, 2017...**_

The roar of the Tiger MAC Tanks heralded the day once again.

Beams of blue light, caused by the electromagnetic discharge of the tank's MAC gun, tore a path through the air as the rounds slammed into improvised barricades, disintegrating the standing structure as the ETO troops charged, a rousing battlecry at their lips.

Deeper into the enemy lines, plumes of fire and smoke rose into the air as artillery shells dropped all throughout the area, carving up Paris' beautiful streets and damaging more than a few of its 19th century buildings, the white facade of these apartments crumbling into idle debris in the streets.

More than a few architects and historians would weep this day.

On the other side of the battle, the French stayed firm at their lines, no longer fleeing at the sight of the North's superior technology. There were no more traitors amongst their ranks, as far as they were concerned. All those who remained loyal to the government now were true believers. They were the _true_ Sons and Daughters of France. Bright coloured cockades adorned their helmets, berets, or whatever other head gear they chose to wear, a symbol of their undying loyalty to the government of the Republic.

"_VIVE LA FRANCE!_" they roared as they opened fire, the antiquated gatling guns, machine guns, and rifles, with a few thousand FAMAS and modern machine guns interspersed to give them some chance at winning, rattling off their deadly ammunition. "_Vive la liberté!_"

The Northern troops, to a man enhanced with the HAVOC regimen, charged heedless of the torrent of bullets, and many fell to the deadly projectiles, being that despite being enhanced, they were all still very human, and as such very susceptible to dying from gunshot wounds.

What made them superior, however, was their increased muscle power, being able to cross distances a fraction faster than before, and giving their reflexes a boost in their mental chronometry, meaning they could react faster than the average soldier and with more precision.

A grenade sailed overhead. Northern troops ducked and jumped out of the way as the World War II-era device exploded, taking off the lower leg of a Northern trooper who'd run into the blast radius by accident. Two more grenades followed suit from the Northern side, the precision aim dropping the Reductor-enhanced grenades right in the middle of the enemy lines, causing catastrophic damage as the mix of fire, shrapnel, and a Reductor spell obliterated everything within their limited radii.

The breach was now open.

War cries rolled off the tongues of the Northern troops as they charged forth again, the French defenders quickly rallying to defend the new breaches in their defensive positions. Machine guns were relocated for maximum effect and resumed fire on the Northern advance, forcing the Northern troops to scatter to avoid wholesale slaughter.

A quick call in, and another Tiger MAC Tank fired its ordnance, widening the breach and vaporizing the machine gun crew in a flash of electric blue light mixed with fire and dirt..

The Northern troops surged as the way became clear, quickly pouring into the breach and opening fire on the French defenders out in the open. Forced back, many of them went for the majestic, historical buildings along the side of the roads, desperate to take advantage of whatever cover they could find. Out in the open, they knew, they would be slaughtered.

The ETO forces, however, were not about to let go of their prey.

High Command had been extremely blunt about the need to constantly press the attack unless ordered otherwise. The difficulty of taking Paris had arisen out of constant delays and attempts at over-complicated schemes. Right now, each army had to stop trying to be too clever and just crush the enemy army. If they didn't, the Parisian defenders would be allowed time to dig in and make things more difficult.

Which just could _not _be allowed to happen.

Loud explosions sounded throughout the city, as the ETO marched inexorably towards the Elysee Palace. Not just from the Northern artillery, but also the Military Mages, brought finally to bear on the French capital.

Led by Gabrielle Delacour, retaining her _nom de guerre_ of _La Pucelle_, she had been tasked with clearing the way for the ETO. Combined with the guerilla tactics of Redemption's disbanded partisans, she swiftly cut a way through the French defenses, her Military Mages leaving devastated enemy units behind.

But even as the ETO's victory drew nearer, there was no question as to the inevitably high cost of this battle. For how could there be anything but? Paris was the very heart of the Republic. Even if thousands — _millions_ of Frenchmen had given up, there were still thousands willing to lay down their lives for France, and the ingenuity that could only be born out of desperation threatened slowing the ETO advance into a quagmire.

Something that Harry refused to allow.

Standing over a digitised map of the French capital city, Harry had arbitrarily cut the city into several sectors, and ordered their immediate pacification to the combined ETO armies. As with all plans, an order easier to give than to make happen.

For even if the ETO was entirely willing to bring this conflict to a close, the defenders weren't about to just lay down and die, or even surrender. For why would they? A desire to live? For many, the idea of a happy life within the confines of Northern law, treated as a conquered people, was unconscionable. Why would free men and women ever submit to such treatment?

Inconceivable.

Yet conquest was the only way out of this war. The ETO refused to countenance the idea of leaving France to its own designs again, having seen the rather desperate way they had jumped into a war with Germany, and then with the far technologically superior Northern Sun. Stability, the ETO Assembly declared, could only come with the end of French independence.

Gabrielle, however, didn't quite know what to make of that.

As previously stated, she'd been put in charge of Sector 14 of Paris, spearheading the assault into the heart of the city — her end goal, the Elysée Palace. As a Frenchwoman, she would be given the ETO's highest vote of confidence — the apprehension of the President of France, who was now being indicted for crimes against humanity by the ETO.

Crimes that they had no knowledge of. Crimes they made up to justify their war.

Crimes only she and her fellow French mages, and perhaps a few German mages, had ever felt.

What the King hadn't known, when he put her in charge of Sector 14, was that it once housed the Delacour home. She'd grown up in Sector 14. She'd visited parks, played with other children, and then dreamt of Beauxbatons there. She'd fantasized about boys and tried her mother's makeup time and time again. She'd been...normal. A normal little girl. A normal childhood,

"General?"

Gabrielle broke out of her musings, unaware that she'd been holding a doll she'd once possessed in her childhood, amidst the ruins of her room. Despite protests from her subordinates, she'd insisted on visiting her ancestral home, only to find it pretty much as she'd left it — in ruins, gutted by fire and vandalism.

"I grew up here," she told her subordinate, a mage codenamed Bolt. "Right here."

Bolt was quiet. He was always quiet, in her short experience with the young man. He was also very adherent to protocol. When she'd asked him for his real name, rather than his codename, he'd steadfastly refused. As unused and disturbed by the need to replace their names with mere words that reflected their power, the Military Mages were determined to keep themselves identified in this way. Gabrielle had been forced to fight against getting her own codename by pushing for her _nom de guerre_ instead.

Thus, she remained Pucelle to her men, or General. Much like Longbottom remained General Wenshi to many of his colleagues, or how Wood was General Keeper.

It was impersonal, and odd, but like with her assimilation into the ETO's forces, she had to live with it.

She clutched the doll in her hands tightly. How could her life had gone so wrong, so quickly?

"General, our forces have managed to push back the defenders another two miles," Bolt informed her, his person illuminated a little by the glow of a raven patronus standing nearby. "However, we have found several layers of defences at the enemy's new lines. We are unlikely to be able to proceed without causing significant material damage."

She knew what a mage, any other mage, would've said on the spot: So? A quick spell, and all was fixed.

But she hated being so cavalier with destruction. She thought that attitude merely demonstrated the desensitization of mages to the harm they were causing. And great harm it was, for she had seen individuals raze much of a city block with nary a care for the memories and histories they were laying waste to.

The King had promised her restraint amongst the mages, in order to ensure the survival of Paris' rich architectural history — to make sure her home remained, for the most part, intact.

But to her frustration, the defenders refused every entreaty to surrender, to spare the city. As far as she knew, they would rather burn it down themselves than surrender the jewel of Europe to the ETO.

Insanity. Mad reticence in the face of utter destruction! How could they ever believe they would win?! They had no mages, no technology with which to beat the ETO! Wasn't futile sacrifice even more dishonorable than surrender?

"General, we require orders," Bolt insisted, his hands clasped behind his back, chest puffed up in pride and utter professionalism. A good soldier.

But was _she_? Gabrielle wondered at that. She was independent in thought. Always had been. If she'd ever thought Beauxbatons was a bad school, she wouldn't have wanted to go there, regardless of her sister, or their mother's wishes. When the French state had begun its repressive campaign against mages, she alone of her family had voiced growing concern about their safety, despite the wards. She'd been ignored, naturally, as she'd still been nothing but a relative youth, even at 24.

And, as it turned out, she was right.

News from her sister, then a teacher at her old _alma mater_, had stopped with an immediacy that had her begging her parents to investigate Beauxbatons, in order to make sure that her beloved sister was alright. Again, her parents had assured her she was overreacting to the communications blackout ordered by the government.

Then the news had come about mages being ordered to register, on pain of summary imprisonment. She'd again asked her parents to listen to her, to resist the order, and to come with her, fetch Fleur, and flee the country! Maybe to the United States! Maybe to Canada! Anywhere but France, where she was seeing her peoples' rights being eroded with frightful alacrity.

Again, she was brushed aside.

Her youth...her looks...her heritage. A blessing when dealing with weak willed men. A curse of youth in an ageist society.

She'd joined Redemption in 2011, the very next year after the Great Reveal. Back when the plight of the mages was becoming more and more obvious in France. Back then, Redemption had been nothing but a student-led organization that marched in the streets or distributed pamphlets. They were Muggle college students and young mages, walking side by side in protest against the erosion of human rights.

But then the far right slowly absorbed more and more seats within the National Assembly. Moderates became drowned out as extremism rose. Even before she was forced to flee her home, the Delacour house had been the target of rocks being thrown, and graffiti being painted on their walls. Her mother, however, remained optimistic, charmed the bad things away and kept her hopes up. She even insisted Fleur was alright.

Gabrielle knew better, deep down. She may not have had evidence, but she knew, in her heart of hearts, that her sister was beyond reach now.

And then came the day.

She remembered it well. The Northern Territories had finished their Civil War with the Chiefs of Staff and were recovering. Europe, around them, kept falling apart, piece by piece. Riots here, killings there. Accusations within the National Assembly of mages cooperating with Germans. A terrible age.

And then made worse by the passing of _La Loi d'Inscription_ — the Registration Act.

Registration hadn't been new to France. Ever since the Great Reveal, the state had passed law after law to force the mages to register with the state, in order to better track the magic users in all parts of the national territories. For the most part, however, they had been lax in enforcement, due in no small part to the efforts of humanitarian groups, who kept challenging the law on the grounds of discrimination.

On August 6th, 2012, however, those objections fell away.

War had been declared with Germany. Mages stood accused of cooperation with the enemy. Suddenly, registration was no longer a flimsy, public safety regulation, but a wartime necessity. Any objections suddenly sounded treasonous. Resistance, an admission of guilt.

Her parents had still neglected to register, and Gabrielle had always refused. Her sister, out of touch for a whole year, was nowhere to be found.

A mob came soon to the Delacour home, their exact location sold out by another mage wanting to save his skin.

Gabrielle had never seen so much hate in her life. Explosives were tossed, obscenities shouted. Threats against her virtue and her mother's dirtied the lips of many a man and woman. It was as though civilization had fled the very souls of these people who now threatened to torch her home.

Her parents, finally aware of the danger they were in, attempted to flee the premises via the Floo network, only to find out belatedly that the French Ministry had been shut down and the entire Network disabled. Apparation and Portkeys were their only hope, yet her parents had been determined to save as much as they could.

An act that effectively cost them their lives.

The more hateful members of the mob had come armed, and upon seeing her parents move about through the windows, had begun shooting. Her mother died first, struck in the temple as she tried to save an ancestral heirloom. Her father, wrought with grief, was next.

Only she escaped alive.

She never saw either again. Her colleagues in the now-underground Redemption had told her that their bodies had been strung up by the mob, a symbol of the fate these people wished upon all mages.

Gabrielle wept for many days after that.

And then the news of her sister had finally reached her. She, too, had died. Even worse, it had been a year ago, as she'd feared. Troops had come to Beauxbatons to close it down, and when an excitable student had begun acting out, her sister had tried to shield him from a threatened soldier, whose instincts caused him to fire into the young teacher's back, killing her almost instantly.

The resulting chaos had prompted many more deaths, and the whole incident had been buried.

Just like that, Gabrielle was all alone.

The rest, well...that was history. She'd used her grief to fuel her rise through Redemption, lashing out at the French state for the murder of her family, growing in violence as time went by.

Until she met Price. Until the Northern Sun came along. Until she saw _exactly_ what she'd become.

Standing before her, on that fateful day, were people no less ruthless than her, no less predisposed towards violence. The plans and strategies of the Sun were horrific, yet effective. She knew full well what they'd done to France, to the world. She knew of the blackouts — she wasn't so dumb as to not put her meetings with Price and the sudden blackouts together.

Realizing what sort of company she was keeping was jarring. It forced her to reflect. To realize that perhaps she _had_ gone too far, in some respects. But even as she came to that conclusion, what other way presented itself before her, but forward? Not cooperating with the ETO meant a sure death at the hands of either the French state, or at the end of a Northern rifle.

And, perhaps, the King would follow through with his vision. Perhaps he could offer mages the liberation and security that no other state had been able to do quite as well...

It was a wish she held onto dearly...even as she led foreign troops into the very heart of her country.

Squeezing the ragged doll one last time, Gabrielle let it then drop onto the dirty, ashen floor unceremoniously. Her past was like this house — gone. Right now, she had legions of men and women waiting on her commands, waiting to see how _La Pucelle_ would lead them to victory.

It was not a charge she enjoyed, but one she had since steeled herself to perform.

"There won't be a need for wanton destruction, Bolt," she informed her subordinate, who tensed as she spoke up. Turning around, she let her electric blue eyes pierce the young man with stern severity. "We are not destroyers or butchers. We are liberators. We must endeavour to protect as much of Paris as we can. Have the Transfigurators move forward and dismantle the enemy defences from afar."

Bolt frowned. "But General, the snipers in the area will make quick work of them," he protested politely.

"And that's why we shall have each Transfigurator protected by a Shielder."

"And the enemy mortars?" Bolt pressed, a little distressed at the ideas flowing out of Gabrielle's mouth. Even a novice could see the inherent problems of her plan!

"Will become irrelevant," she declared sternly. "Have twenty mages take the sewers underneath the enemy defences and strike at their rear. They might have tried to collapse them, or fortified the passages, so they'll need to be careful."

Bolt's eyes widened as he understood at last. The Transfigurators and the Shielders were just bait. Something to make the French defenders believe the attack was coming from their front, when in reality, twenty mages would sneak through their lines beneath their feet and strike at their rear.

_Clamor in the East, Attack in the W__est._

Gabrielle had made good use of her rapid education in military strategy. She knew she was the newcomer, the uncertain factor within the Northern Sun's military ranks. She knew Swift hated her, Humboldt never even registered her, and Longbottom and Wood suspected her. She knew she had to effectively carve out a space for herself amongst the Northern Sun's elite.

And she would.

* * *

_**Skies of Paris, France, September 22, 2017...**_

Ford looked back at the numerous SSI teams lining up behind him, all of them facing the lowering loading ramp of the massive cargo airplane currently delivering them to their target zone. Ford grimaced as he felt his teeth chattering like mad, courtesy of the hella bumpy ride this was turning into. He was rather glad the pilot up ahead wasn't a newbie, though, or else it could've been much, much worse.

The massive rush of wind at his back licked at his armor, but except for his head, he could feel none of it. Only his helmet remained in his hand, like everyone else getting ready for the jump.

And jump they had to.

Paris was a nightmare, even with technological superiority. Despite the wide roads and ease of access, the Parisian defenders had made every inch of ground be bought in blood. And since collateral damage was ordered to remain at a bare minimum, in order to preserve Paris' historically significant heritage, that meant the big guns couldn't be fired with wild abandon anymore.

Courtesy of the French defectors, who'd basically blackmailed the ETO into agreeing to this condition before offering their services.

For Ford and his SSI, however, it just meant more Special Operations missions to be run in a shorter period of time. It meant going up against stacked odds in places he much rather preferred to fight with an army at his back, rather than fighting isolated as he was expected to.

The roads of Paris were wide, true, but that just meant less cover for him and his men.

Holding on to the steel bar overhead, he looked down at the grim and set faces of every man and woman under his command. All of the SSI was being dropped for this siege. His own detachment consisted of Fireteams Sabre, Castle, Viper, Spearhead, and Guardian — the very same detachment he'd fought at Versailles with. In three other airplanes running parallel to this one, he knew the rest of the SSI readied themselves for the imminent drop.

Helmet in hand, he quickly brought it up to his head and, with his sole free hand, slipped it on, feeling a little claustrophobic when the new self-adjusting components whirred to life and tightened it to a good fit. With a shift of his jaw, the visor's HUD booted up, lighting up the IFF tags of each of the SSI troopers before him.

Another jaw movement and the external speakers were on. "HELMETS ON!" he barked.

Smoothly, he watched as Guardian, then Sabre, Viper, Spearhead, and Castle all complied with his order. One by one, the IFF icons of each of the troopers on his visor began to read Operational, denoting that their HUD systems were functioning correctly.

"Systems check!" he ordered next as he switched to TEAMCOM. Shifting his jaw, he activated the helmet's new voice command function and repeated the order for the built-in computer's benefit. Immediately, smaller windows appeared on his visor, running hundreds of lines of code before minimizing and prompting OK notifications.

"Guardian Lead, check!" he informed his troopers, setting off the chain of similar replies.

He watched as each individual icon went from orange to green on his screen, their names briefly obscured by an OK notification before settling back to its normal status. He had to admire the geeks behind the HUD's numerous updates. Ever since they'd first field tested the damn things during Operation Guardian, they'd managed to code the crap out of the HUD Visors and cram even more information onto the screen.

One of those mixed blessings of being the beneficiary of a wartime economy, he supposed.

Either way, the upgrades meant each team now had the ability to acquire battlefield data in real time, allowing the SSI to conduct operations while remaining aware of the situation of the other fireteams as they proceeded, without the need for vocal queries or an operator sitting in some FOB playing telephone between the teams.

"All systems check!" he announced as a mission timer enlarged itself on his visor, informing him they were less than a minute away from their drop point. As with the Versailles operation, they would be magidropping into battle, but this time, in broad daylight. The odds of being shot out of the air rose a hell of a lot more, but if the operation worked, it also meant they could take out a stumbling block for the ETO armies.

Namely, a major artillery battery sitting in the middle of Paris, peppering all of the ETO's frontlines with a variety of shells — from modern pieces to a few shells that belonged in a in a Victorian museum.

Either way, still lethal.

"Everyone know their jobs?" he asked over TEAMCOM as they readied to go. Nods along the line answered his query, the five teams maintaining radio discipline.

Even though their frequencies were practically unhackable by the enemy — given the lack of technology — Ford had insisted — particularly to King and Buchanan — that they learn to keep quiet, despite their helmets being soundproof. Even if the French couldn't hack into their comms, there was no guarantee that some other, third party couldn't. Enough time had passed for other nations to probably recover a bit from the Blackout.

He nodded, watching the timer run down to ten seconds. Time for a last pep talk. "By land or sky!" he prompted, vocalizing the first half of the SSI motto's first verse.

"_We are SSI!_" his troopers answered correctly over TEAMCOM.

"For Sun and King!" he followed, noting they were down to five seconds.

"_For the peace we'll bring!_"

"No surrender, no regrets!"

Zero. The light turned green, and one by one, the troopers jogged out by him, the answering chant on their lips as they jumped off the ramp and into the open sky beneath, chuteless and unafraid.

"_To our very last breath__!_"

"URA!" Ford joined in as the five teams howled their battle cry, following the last man down into the void.

The wind smashed against his frame as he fell, his arms and legs spread into a delta shape to maximize his falling speed, his spine ramrod straight as he and his fellow SSI troopers plunged down towards the earth. He felt none of it but the pressure on his front. A glance to the upper left corner of his visor told him the digital altimeter was racing down, even as he and the others finally hit cloud cover, still falling unaided by any chutes.

As a child, Ford remembered often wondering if clouds would feel like soft pillows if he ever got to touch them. Now, as he broke right through, he knew they were like wisps of air — yielding, malleable. A lost childhood fantasy.

Not that he had time to regret anything.

He broke cloud cover, racing down at the lead of the SSI contingent. Something to his right shook him, nearly sending him off course. A glance in that direction informed him that the French had seen the overhead planes and put two and two together. Anti-aircraft shots detonated around him, each one threatening to end his life with sudden abruptness.

Nothing more to it, then. Point of no return.

Still, he raced down. His HUD beeped once. A casual glance caused a grimace as one of Fireteam Sabre's icons blinked once before becoming opaque.

Private James Masters. Marksman. KIA.

Even a shield at this point would've been unable to prevent the loss, he knew. Magical or otherwise, the terminal velocity of their descent, combined with the speed, impact force, and subsequent round detonation, would've still cut through the unfortunate Masters without much effort.

At least this way, they hadn't been forced to hear his dying screams.

"Head's up, SSI!" he barked. "Frogs rolled out the welcome mat!"

He jerked to the side a bit, involuntarily. Another anti-aircraft shell detonated nearby, peppering his armour with shrapnel ineffectively. Checking his HUD, he was glad to see that every significant system within his armour was still functioning appropriately. If the runic magic that would help him and his men avoid a gruesome death ever stopped working...

Well, they'd probably make the record books for shortest lifespan of a Special Forces unit in modern history.

"AA fire intensifying!" Castle Lead announced as the fireteam positioned their bodies to alter their trajectory by the smallest amount. "Deviating five degrees east!"

Ford frowned. "Confirmed, Castle Lead," he conceded grudgingly. He didn't want his SSI contingent separated. They'd have enough trouble already fighting the Frenchies likely defending the artillery batteries. On the other hand, keeping the deployment tight just meant higher odds of the entire detachment getting killed mid-air.

Another glance to the left of his visor — the altimeter was still dropping like a rock. Less than a kilometer above ground. Still, he kept his runes from activating. If they started slowing down at this height, the AA batteries would chew them up. He'd cut it as close as he could before giving the French a decent target.

"Master Sergeant, report!" he called up the leader of the other contingent instead, Master Sergeant Jacques Milford. While Ford and his men were to take down the artillery park, it was Milford's duty to keep the bulk of the French army off their asses. Maybe that was asking too much, but it was all the tricks they had up their sleeves.

"_Still droppin', First Sergeant!_" the man answered, his thick, Caribbean accent. Like tens of thousands of others, Milford had immigrated to the Northern Sun from across the world, fleeing from the anarchy and chaos that still affected many nations worldwide. "_Froggies still trying to kill us, but their aim is shite!_"

Their aim, or their guns? Ford hoped it was the former.

Another explosion nearby, threatening to deviate him from his chosen path. A little shift here and there, and he was back on course. At that moment, Ford thanked his lucky stars for the lack of technology on the French side of things. A simple tracking algorithm would've probably been able to pinpoint exactly when to shoot to hit him, and his men, right out of the sky. As it was, the French gunners were forced to estimate it by eye and gut.

700 meters.

600.

500.

Ford narrowed his eyes. This was it.

"All forces, prepare to initiate Rune Drop!" he barked as his eyes shifted over to the activation switch within his helmet's HUD. a simple eye-tracking program confirmed his identity and a prompt box showed up, asking for confirmation.

He waited. "All troopers, check in for readiness!" he ordered.

33 green dots blinked once. Then again. All confirmed. All good to go.

He eyed the prompt box again. Carefully, he made sure to enunciate clearly. "Confirmed!"

The voice activated runes flared to life all across his armour, soon spreading to the other members of the SSI drop team as well. Almost immediately, he could feel himself radically slowing down, the runes' magic quickly doing their work.

"Prepare to engage!" Ford warned his men as he saw the landing zone being converged upon by rapid-response teams. He reached up for his MAC rifle, magnetically strapped to his leg, and flipped himself about mid-air, in order to land feet first.

300 meters.

Bullets — normal bullets — began peppering his armour and surroundings as the French troops focused their small-arms fire on the incoming Special Forces unit. Ford lifted his rifle, peered down its scope, and waited for the rifle's magnets to finish humming to life. Once a small "good to go" chime sounded out, he squeezed the trigger, and fired.

A Frenchman dropped to the ground, a bloody hole where his heart used to be.

Not nearly enough to clear the landing zone. "Bear!" he barked into his comm unit. "Clear the LZ!"

A second later, he watched as twin plumes of blazing smoke trailed by him, ramming right into the greatest concentration of enemy troops at the landing zone. The resulting explosion was spectacular in both impact and effect.

Three seconds later, the effect was magnified as numerous more rockets made short work of the enemy greeting party.

Less than 100 meters.

"Here we go, SSI!" he shouted as he pulled up his rifle again and fired off a few bursts, dropping three more French defenders who'd valiantly stood their ground, despite the chaos that Bear and the other rocketeers in the contingent had wrought.

30 meters.

A bullet whizzed by his helmet, prompting a cautionary alarm. Pity there was no cover mid-air.

20 meters.

He found the offending sharpshooter and put him down, the magnetically accelerated round drilling a wide hole in the man's head.

10 meters.

"Secure the perimeter!" he barked as the runes lost power. With a sudden jerk, gravity took full control of him once more, dropping him the final five meters as nature intended. With a firm thud, he landed in a squat and rolled forward, dissipating the harmful effects of the fall before standing up, rifle ready, and taking down a couple of French daredevils, who'd begun charging him for up-close-and-personal treatment.

The one range where the French still held equal skill.

Another guttural cry from his left informed him that he was being flanked by another surprise ambush, but this one, too, was quickly put down, this time by the timely efforts of Liam, who simply drew his sidearm and put the offending soldier down.

All around him, his contingent of SSI troopers landed, rifles blazing as they quickly got to work to secure the initial objective — the LZ.

Quick on the uptake, Ford was soon on TEAMCOM, directing the flow of his troops. "Fireteams Castle, Spearhead, secure the enemy positions to my 12!" he ordered briskly as he ran for cover, peeked out, and brought down two more French defenders. "Viper, Sabre, secure our 3 and 9! Guardian, We're on 6!"

Sporadic blinks from the contingent's green icons. Only Masters' icon remained conspicuously blank, an ongoing testament to the loss of one of their own, even before they'd landed.

"_HMGs, straight ahead!_" Alice announced in alarm as Guardian halted their advance in time to duck for cover, just as said machine guns opened fire.

Ford growled, but kept his cool as he looked for his marksman. "Spectre! Please convey our irritation to those gentlemen!"

There was a soft grunt over TEAMCOM before two shots rang out, silencing the French guns for the moment. The crews up there would surely have another man on the HMGs before too long.

In short, they had to move _now_. "Let's go, Guardian!" he ordered as he sprang to his feet and sprinted forward, his magically lightened combat armour barely impeding any movement. "Bear! I want that nest gone!" he told his subordinate as they reached another piece of cover.

The hulking SSI trooper nodded as he unlatched the compact RPG from his back and held it ready, nodding to Buchanan. The petite woman quickly brought out a pair of rounds from a pack and loaded the heavy weapon with precise efficiency.

"_One boomstick, coming right up!_"Bear growled as he waited for the HMGs to either shift their fire or reload. The former came about first, as the HMG nest undoubtedly noted that the other four Fireteams were making good headway towards their targets.

Shifting his frame into position, Bear lifted the RPG launcher and rested its edge on the piece of debris he'd taken cover behind for stability, aiming it right up to the ground beneath the nest, located in a destroyed residential building. "_CLEAR!_" he barked, making sure no one was stupid enough to stand behind him when he fired. "_Knock, knock, motherfuckers!_" he taunted.

The other members of Guardian turned away as the weapon fired its lethal cargo, the twin rockets speeding towards their target with deadly precision. Knowing he had no way of hitting the targets proper, Bear had taken the risk that the residential building's floors were not quite up to scratch after the pounding the war had taken out on it.

He gambled right.

With resounding blasts, the rockets carved into the cement floors, bringing down the entire area where the HMG nest had been in a mass of flesh, concrete, wood, and rebar.

Ford smiled grimly as the rest of Guardian whooped in celebration. With the nest gone, they could now advance relatively safely. "Nice work, Bear!" he praised his subordinate as he observed the crumbling facade of the building. Even if the French managed to reposition themselves there, doing so would spread the artillery park's defensive forces thin, which he knew the French knew. They would likely leave the place as is and refocus their defenses closer to the park now.

He watched as Buchanan slapped her partner on the back, probably grinning wildly behind that polarized visor. "_Fuck yeah, Bear! That's my partner!_"

Bear rested the rocket launcher on his shoulder, his posture confident and relaxed as Guardian took a well earned respite. "_Hell yeah, baby! That's the way we do i—!_"

A shot rang out.

Before Ford knew what happened, a burst of arterial blood erupted from Bear's neck, where the combat armor was thinnest in order to allow for flexibility.

"_SNIPER!_" Petrovsky warned, too late, already scouting for his foe, even as he jumped over the debris and took cover from this new foe. They'd been so worried about their own flank of the attack that they'd foolishly neglected their rear, where none of the other Fireteams had reported completion of their objective.

"_BEAR!_" Buchanan shrieked in horror as the hulking man slumped back, blood pouring from beneath his helmet as he undoubtedly choked on his own blood. The big man flailed about, his hands reaching up for his wound, but ironically blocked from doing so by the very combat armour meant to have protected him.

"_Buchanan, get to cover!_" Ford shouted as he jumped over to the other side of his cover, just in time to avoid a few well placed sniper shots. "_Spectre! Where the fuck is that asshole?!_"

"_Buchanan, let's go!_" Alice pleaded with her female comrade as she pulled at the petite woman, who kept trying to lunge for Bear, practically trying to claw her way back to her fallen partner.

"_Let go of me!_" Buchanan shouted angrily as struggled against the medic. Seeing the trouble Buchanan was causing, Liam was quick to assist Alice, between the two managing to bring the petite woman into cover.

"_FUCK!_" King roared into his comm. "_Sarge, we can't just leave Bear in the open like that!_"

Ford glared over at the junior member of the team, not that the man would see it. "You want to die next, King?! Stay the _fuck_ out of sight!" he chastised the younger man.

"_BEAR! BEAR!_" Buchanan insisted over the comm. "_Don't you fucking die on me, you asshole! Don't you fucking dare!_"

"SPECTRE!" Ford roared, trying to overcome the force of Buchanan's desperate yelling. "Where the hell is he?!"

There was no answer from the marksman. Ford swore. If Petrovsky couldn't find the damn sniper, then Guardian, and possibly the other Fireteams, were all sitting ducks.

No more bullets hit where they were — even worse. The sniper was apparently no junior grade asshat who's scored a lucky shot. This was probably the type who shot only when the shooting was good. Probably even dirtied his scope up to avoid the giveaway glare mistake that many rookies fell victim to.

"_Bear...Bear..._" Buchanan was practically whimpering, still being held down by Alice and Liam, the petite woman struggling to crawl back to her friend, whose muffled gurgles could still be heard over TEAMCOM. A seriously debilitating event that threatened to cripple his Fireteam's morale.

Bear had been with the team since Day 1 — right after their HAVOC procedures. He'd been the more polite half of the Buchanan-Bergstein team, and she'd defended his criminal past from the day she'd met him. The two were virtually inseparable, and were it not for the fact that regulations prohibited such things, the rest of Guardian — hell, the _SSI_ — would've expected the two to hook up.

Everyone loved Bear. Everyone respected the dutiful, loyal man. The redeemed criminal. The friend.

The good soldier.

Someone currently under grave threat.

"_Found him._"

Ford's attention snapped over to Petrovsky, who was already shifting his rifle in the appropriate direction. A tense undertone could be heard in the Ukrainian soldier's voice — a clear sign that even the emotionally stunted man was feeling the effects of Bear's wounding.

"Take the fucking shot," Ford ordered tightly, trying desperately to keep Bear's wounded voice from piercing his stoic psyche.

"_My pleasure._"

A shot rang out. Possibly the loudest one Ford had ever heard, though he knew that, objectively, that was not true. The mere intensity of their situation had just made it seem so. Even so, all of Guardian waited with baited breath for Petrovsky's confirmation.

"_Target down._" Petrovsky confirmed, for once sounding rather pleased. "_Get Bear._"

The team didn't need telling twice.

Ford jumped the debris again, landing right next to bear. Discarding his rifle, he quickly reached up for Bear's helmet and pried it loose. To his disgust, a small waterfall of blood filtered out — the red liquid having been kept firmly within the helmet due to its self-adjusting algorithm.

"MEDIC!" he roared, just as Alice came to Bear's other side. With precise movements, she reached for her pack, brought out packs of plasma and other necessary tools of her trade, and quickly got to work bandaging the wound.

To Ford's irritation, Bear's icon on his HUD was blinking rapidly, a warning tone informing him of the man's plummeting vitals. With a shift of his jaw, the tone went quiet, Ford having muted the damn thing to allow him some concentration. "Doc, we're losing him!" he warned Alice.

"_You think I don't fucking know, Sarge?!"_ she snapped as she worked as quickly as she physically could to stem the Heavy Weapons expert's blood loss. "_Fuck. Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, FUCK!_" she swore. "_It's not working!_" she announced desperately, prompting another round of Buchanan trying to get up from under Liam's armlock. "_Come on, Bear, you big, stupid, berk! Stay with me!_"

Ford swore. "Fuck it!" he said tightly. "Prep him for MEDEVAC!" he ordered briskly. There was no more time. Either Bear left the field, or he died. No in betweens.

Alice's head snapped up. "_That could kill him in this state!_" she protested fiercely. "_Sarge, he's lost so much blood, and his wound's so fucked up, the force of the P__ORTVAC could make it irreparable!_"

"Do you have another fucking option, Doc?!" Ford snapped back. "Do it!"

"_Bear! Bear, don't you leave me, you big, stupid asshat!_" Buchanan pleaded desperately.

"Liam, get her out of here!" Ford roared as Alice finished prepping Bergstein for transport. With a final glance at Ford, she paused a moment before growling impotently and activating Bear's Emergency Portkey.

With a sudden swirl, the Heavy Weapons expert soon popped out of sight, the only testament to his presence at the Landing Zone being a pool of his blood and his bloodied helmet, lying not two feet away.

Ford simply sat there, looking at the place where Bear had been, the blood stains burned into his memory forever.

Two men down.

And they hadn't even left the bloody Landing Zone.

_Fuck._

* * *

_**Paris, France, September 25, 2013...**_

Taking the city was costing the ETO far more than it had expected.

With a far better knowledge of the city's most intimate secrets, the French defenders had turned every nook and cranny into an ambush point or safehouse, provoking the ETO invaders into slowing down more and more, until the advance towards the Élysée Palace wound down to a crawl.

Harry was rather displeased with this.

Despite multiple "Green Zones" set up within the conquered parts of the city, the ETO had been unable to even use the weight of their numbers to bring the war to a final close. Even with MAC Tanks and the latest in technology, guerrilla tactics and stoic defences continued to harangue the ETO's advance, provoking more deaths than he'd been expecting.

Even now, he watched as twenty more coffins were loaded up onto a cargo plane, to be repatriated and returned to their loved ones, bold, Northern, Spanish, Belgian, Dutch, and Austrian flags draped over the eclectic mix of soldiers.

Flags that would be handed over to the families, as a reminder of the duty their fallen ones had sworn to uphold, even at the risk of their own death. A bitter, unhelpful act to many. A cold comfort to others.

He watched silently as the honor guard raised their rifles in salute as a lone trumpeter blared his sorrowful tune, other servicemen saluting as the coffins were slowly transported into the plane for their final voyage home.

His left, gloved hand tightened, the leather groaning at the strain and prompting a quick glance from Astoria, who stood dutifully by him.

Unlike Elicia, however, Astoria never tried to speak to him about these things. She just accepted whatever his decision was and ran with it. It made her a good soldier, and an even better bodyguard, but a poor companion in times like these.

Not for the first or last time, he wished his wife were here with him.

He waited, patiently, for the last coffin to enter the plane's cargo hold. He watched as the ramp slowly closed up, then turned away, walking back to the Main Operating Base's deployment area. This would not be the last such plane. There would be more, if nothing was done to stem the flow of blood.

It was time to drop the gloves.

There were no more innocents left in Paris. Whoever remained was devoted to the cause to the bitter end. While he appreciated his wife's concern for the city's historical value, Harry could no longer justify protecting that over the lives of his men.

Even the SSI, his special shock troopers, had suffered bitter losses, and like him, their patience was stretching thin.

"Enough is enough," he spoke up at last, still guiding Astoria towards the deployment zone.

"Sire?" she asked, confused.

"We're headed back into the field." he stated simply. "Call up the other mages. We're initiating an attack at _La Defense_."

Astoria blinked, a little concerned with her King's sudden attitude, but nodded in agreement before Apparating out, another mage — also part of his Guards — appearing in her place while she was gone.

Harry had a use for this one, too. He stopped and turned his head slightly to address him. "Tell the Field Marshall to assemble a strike force at La Defense. Inform him we are beginning a final strike towards the Palace."

Another wordless nod, and the bodyguard was gone — again, replaced by another member of his Guards.

After the Liverpool incident, the Guards had made sure that he was _never_ left alone or out of their sight.

He didn't mind. It eased his wife's mind as well, after all. And he made Astoria swear that his family would receive the same sort of protection. If ever anyone tried to lay a hand on Elicia _or_ Katerina, Harry wanted to make sure they understood that their lives, and those of their loved ones, were forfeit. His vengeance would be terrible and vicious.

Much like his honor demanded right now.

As he reached the empty deployment zone — there were other bases far closer to the front lines — he waited there, patiently, while Astoria and her subordinate carried out his orders. He didn't have to wait long.

Within moments, Astoria had reappeared nearby, followed by hundreds of soft pops as Military Mages began arriving, all of them donning their blue coats, some tattered, others brand new. None of them carried visages of levity, for which he was thankful for. He didn't want anyone miss the gravity of what he was about to say.

And then, with another soft pop, Astoria's subordinate returned as well, holding Speirs, whose face now carried the weight of his office and the burden of the lost. Even in uniform, however, the man looked every bit the formidable soldier Harry knew him to be.

"Your Majesty," Speirs greeted immediately, snapping off a crisp salute. Harry returned it respectfully.

"Speirs, my friend," he greeted as he walked towards the man and, amidst the growing crowd of Military Mages, grasped the man's arms in welcome. "You've heard, then?"

Speirs nodded. "I have," he grumbled, stoic. "I also agree. It is time to finish this war."

Harry nodded gravely. "Indeed. Then you have the troops I need?" he asked.

Speirs smirked. "Ordered their deployment myself the moment I heard," he assured his King. "The very best I could muster in short order."

Harry nodded, grateful. "Thank you."

Speirs snorted, reaching up and grasping Harry by the forearm. "Thank me by ending this infernal war."

Harry understood Speirs well. If taking France had been this troublesome, how much worse would be the fight with Germany? With Russia? How many more devastating wars would the North and the ETO manage to sustain before it collapsed under its own strain?

No.

He could no longer afford to wonder about the future, right now. At the moment, he needed to end _this_ war before he considered the huge obstacles ahead.

Grasping Speir's forearm, he tightened his grip on it briefly as a sign of understanding. "I will," he swore.

Speirs nodded. "Swift, Ruiz, and Humboldt will provide assistance from the Northern, Southern, and Eastern flanks. Wenshi, Keeper, and Pucelle will remain in reserve and act as needed."

Harry smiled. It was good to know that his force would not act alone. Much less strain on his forces.

"For the end of the war," he told Speirs.

The Field Marshall nodded, smiling grimly. "For the peace we'll bring."

Letting go of Harry, Speirs turned and walked away, soon spirited away by Harry's bodyguard, who'd been standing by to take the Commander of the Allied Forces back to his headquarters, leaving Harry amidst the crowd of Military Mages, all of them silently awaiting their orders.

Harry wasted no time enlightening them.

"This war," he announced, his voice amplified by magic, "has cost us dear."

As expected, no one spoke. It wasn't exactly ground breaking news — practically every unit had suffered during the bitter confrontation between the French state and the ETO. "And so far, we have stayed our hands from complete destruction, hoping to show our foes that mercy would be granted to those who would accept the inevitable."

Suddenly, he swept out his hand. "But that hand was smacked away!" he continued, allowing a bit of his anger to seep into his tone. "Our last defector came before Paris! For all the work we have placed in keeping this city, the so-called Jewel of Europe, intact, we have been consistently ambushed! Consistently shot at and killed when we thought ourselves safest!"

"Enough is enough!" he moved and turned about to make sure every mage present understood he was addressing them all individually. He made careful eye contact with each mage he could see, pointing at each of them. "What must happen before we finally bring this infernal conflict to an end? Must it be your life? Yours? Yours, perhaps?"

"No!" he answered his own hypothetical. "No more pointless deaths! No more holding back! We have fought too bloody long! We have fought too bloody hard, to allow even a single more soldier to die a fruitless death, because he could not harm some building, or a statue!"

He turned and, with a dramatic flourish, extended his arms slightly above his head. "That is why we will now march, from _La Defense_, all the way to the Élysée Palace! That is why we will now march all the way to the President's very door, and tear him from his hiding place, where he cowers from Northern justice!"

There was a rumble of agreement that ran throughout the crowd of mages. He could see their desire to end the war in their eyes, in their posture. He could see that will seeping out of their very pores. Everyone was sick of France, of its resistance. This war ended _now_.

"This ends now!" his voice rose to fever pitch. "This war ends _now!_ The fall of France is complete, and the future beckons to us once more!"

Cheers broke out throughout the crowd of mages as men and women finally voiced their long suppressed frustration at being unable to cut loose — to show the French just _why_ Military Mages ought to be truly feared. No more transfiguring blockades. No more taking precise precautions so some piece of concrete and rebar wasn't hurt. No more holding back.

The North had finally lost its patience.

The French would surrender, or they would _burn_.

* * *

Mobilizing the troops was typically something that took a lot of time.

First, you needed to calculate how many soldiers were necessary for the operation. Then, you had to ensure that they were all well supplied. Then, make sure the officers understood the importance of keeping their units disciplined, particularly in a mission such as this one, where passions might run high.

Once done, you then needed to actually _move_ these soldiers into deployment zones. Then came the issue of heavy equipment, like tanks, artillery, air support, etc... — how many were needed? How many were necessary? Would these vehicles require additional gas and ammunitions? If so, where would these things come from?

In short, mobilizing a force — particularly a large force — was an administrative nightmare. The amount of red tape required to move a unit from Point A to Point B was regularly underestimated by soldiers and civilians alike.

However, when you could effectively teleport supplies and men into combat, many of these problems went away.

When the Field Marshal himself deigned you with his presence to make it clear he wanted things expedited, most of those problems went away.

When the King himself, however, ordered the bureaucrats to light a match under it, the rest of those problems evaporated.

Thus, even as he stood amidst his Military Mage colleagues, who were all outnumbered vastly by the amount of regular soldiers and armoured vehicles that crowded the _Avenue Charles de Gaulle_ on the other end of the long-since destroyed _Pont de Neuilly_, Harry had found his strike force quickly and efficiently assembled.

A couple of thousand troops readied themselves for the strike. Not just across this one, ruined bridge, but all along the waterfront of the Seine river. Inflatable assault boats had been readied to carry many units over the river quickly, while the Military Mages cut a fiery swathe through the main approach. The French would have to defend the entire riverbank if they wanted to keep the ETO out.

An impossible task.

Yet, no one had ventured to do it out of respect for the city's rich history. A massive attack on this scale, everyone knew, was likely to be assisted by mass artillery bombardments, air strikes, and copious use of battlefield magic.

Whatever stood in their way would likely be vaporized.

The Northern government, hearing of the plan, was reluctant to agree to the plan — particularly Sirius, who saw the devastation as unnecessary — but eventually came around. The rest of the ETO soon followed once it was made clear that a more roundabout attack would result in vastly higher casualties for all the Allied forces.

All of that said, however, Harry couldn't help but feel a little excited.

Ever since arriving in France, he'd been holding back his magic to avoid looking like a deranged psychopath who loved burning people to death — an accusation the French had happily thrown around before the war. An accusation he patently rejected. He took no joy from killing people, but at the same time, he was more than willing to do so if it meant protecting his people.

Without realizing it, he'd begun snapping his fingers, magical sparks erupting as he subconsciously readied himself for the assault.

Swift and Humboldt had yet to check in. Ruiz-Perez, his old nemesis, had confirmed his forces' readiness to the south, near the edge of the 7th Arrondissement, just out of range of the final French artillery park, located right next to the Élysée Palace.

Swift, for his part, would strike from the north, beyond the border of the 9th Arrondissement, and Humboldt from the east, from his headquarters at the Tenon Hospital.

With this, the Northern Sun's fist would finish clenching around the French government's throat, and the Republic would be snuffed out for good, to be reincarnated beneath the auspices of the Northern Sun's reconstruction program, designed to restructure the region into a French Viceroyalty. The French would surge again, in time, but as _part_ of a greater union.

But for now, however, it was time to excise this particular country from the history of Europe.

"_This is Swift_," he heard over his personal comm bead. "_We are in position and ready to go. Awaiting your signal, Sire._"

"_The eastern flank is ready, too, Sire,_" Humboldt's gravelly baritone weighed in then. "_We shall march upon your command._"

Raising his left hand, Harry prepared the signal flare to initiate the attack. He was well aware that everyone's eyes were on him right now, their bodies tense, ready to spring forward. Everyone knew that this was it, and they all wanted to get it over with. To bring this war to its natural end.

He didn't delay.

With a snap, a single jet of fire rose up, and up, and up, until it passed even the height of the Eiffel Tower, which loomed in the distance. It raced up, for all to see, and fear, and anticipate...and then exploded in a fiery display of raw power.

A signal flare of the end to come.

Almost as one, the army began its march down the road, towards the bridge. In the distance, shots rang out as the snipers located along the riverbank began picking off targets on the other side. Artillery roared a ways behind as the first shells flew overhead, racing for their targets.

Further up, Harry saw a building explode as a French shell hit home, gutting the building.

The army did not stop, even as the building imploded and crumbled, the debris cloud briefly obscuring Harry's vision as they marched past, the tanks and armoured vehicles amongst them rolling slowly. Harry glanced to his side at three mages, who understood his unspoken commandment and detached themselves from the group, walking over to the building.

"_REPARO!_" they incanted, arms raised. Between the three, the magical energy they exuded slowly repaired the destroyed building, eliminating the debris that peppered the roads and could've been a hindrance to their vehicles.

More shells shrieked through the air, threatening their advance. Harry never even batted an eye as ten mages shot forward, raised their wands, and cast a shielding spell, neutralizing the threat well before they were able to do any damage to the road or the incoming army.

Overhead, Northern fighter jets shot by, their guns and missiles streaking the riverbank as they provided air support for the offensive. A missile hit beyond the river seemed to have hit an ammunition depot, too, judging from the magnificent secondary explosions it caused.

The real show didn't begin until they reached the riverbank, however.

Before the marching army of pissed off soldiers and mages lay the broken and ruined _Pont de Neuilly_, their only way across with a direct route to the Palace. The French had destroyed the bridge the moment they realized that the western sectors of the city had been compromised, effectively making the Seine their last line of defense on that end.

A wise strategic move...if your opponent didn't have magic at their disposal.

Mages moved forward from the crowd to fix the bridge, but were soon halted when Harry raised a hand. Without a look or explanation to anyone, he personally walked to the edge of the river, one hand behind his back in a tight fist, and regarded the broken waterway with a critical look.

Then, with a hand sign, four of his bodyguards appeared at his sides, including Astoria. Two of them set up positions to protect their King, while Astoria and her remaining colleague stood by their King's side.

As expected, a barrage of bullets slammed into the shield, just as it was created. An attempt at the King's life made futile in an instant.

Harry, however, had his focus elsewhere. Despite the strain he knew this would cause him, he knew that, in order to project his power, he had to perform some grandiose act of magic to prove, once and for all, that he was King of the Mountain, so to speak.

Still with one hand behind his back — for the figurative effect of things, really, more than actual restraint — Harry raised his free hand towards the bridge's ruins, curling his fingers until only his pointer and index fingers remained extended.

Then, summoning every drop of magic within him, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and projected all of it at the bridge.

"_Reparo._" he incanted as stoically as he could, determined not to show how close to exhaustion this would leave him. A mere building had required three mages working in conjunction to repair it. He was now attempting to do the same by himself.

It wasn't just for his own ego's benefit, however. Or to stoke the enemy's fears.

It was also for his troops. For Astoria and his bodyguards. For the whole world, in fact. It was a statement of the most basic kind — a statement of power, of ability. If he alone could undo the damage wrought unto this bridge, and make it passable such that his army could finally end this war, then the whole world would understand just who it was they were messing with.

Diplomatically, he knew it would alleviate Warwick's burdens, as the reticent Scandinavian and American delegations would understand that they wouldn't just be entering an alliance with a paper tiger, but an actual behemoth. Someone their enemies would consider a monster.

If that happened...good.

He wanted that fear. He wanted that respect. People were less likely to conduct foolish rebellions if they respected his power.

He could do without the fear, though.

Either way, he felt every vein in his body light itself on fire as his magic worked overtime to repair the broken bridge, which spanned 154 meters in length. Even so, even despite the pain, he remained stoic. His face was set in a hard mask of concentration as his magic flowed through his fingertips towards the bridge.

At first, it seemed as though nothing had happened. As though his attempt at bravado had failed utterly. But then, slowly, pieces of debris along the road, the riverbank, and the island the bridge crossed over began to tremble, ever so slightly.

Slowly, they crawled, as though of their own volition, towards the ruined, fallen bridge. Pieces of concrete and steel softly plopped _out_ of the water, as though a film in reverse, racing back towards their original spot, before the French had brought the bridge down.

The Northern army behind him watched, amazed, as their King slowly returned the bridge to its former glory. The debris itself seemed to accelerate its rejuvenation. The pieces flying took great force as they launched themselves from their resting place back towards the regenerating bridge.

Beads of sweat ran down Harry's forehead. His every muscle ached, his head felt like it was about to split open. Even his very bones, particularly those of his outstretched fingers, felt like they were being crushed. The amount of magic, the sheer force of it, was threatening to tear his body asunder from the burden of the spell. An ordinary mage would've taken maybe two days to get through this reconstruction. Three Military Mages, maybe an hour.

He was doing this in less, by himself.

His mouth hurt. He hadn't known when, but at some point he seemed to have ground his teeth such that he was afraid he might have pushed them further into his jaw. Unlikely, but that's how it felt. His jaw muscles, too, felt like they were working overtime to keep him from shouting out his effort, or calling for help.

There would have been no shame in it. None that he didn't immediately attribute to himself, anyway.

He was the King. The supreme leader. Not just of the Northern Sun, but the ETO as well, even if perhaps some in the alliance held onto the idea that they were all equal nations. It was his kingdom. His empire. The nation he would leave behind would shift the path of history forever. His daughter would not just inherit a nation on the rise, but a superpower to change the world.

A superpower of his creation. A creation of his will.

The thought strengthened his conviction. His fingers regained their firmness as he continued to point them up, as though ordering his magic to obey him and stop resisting. As though magic itself were sentient enough to understand that he would not be bowed.

Whatever the reality of it, his spell held firm.

The bridge slowly rebuilt itself. The steel bars that made up its frame welded themselves back together. The concrete that made up its thick skin slowly regained its structural hardness as it glued itself back piece by piece. The tar roads, too, slowly regenerated as the pieces regained coherence.

Even the roadway paint, to denote lanes, slowly regenerated.

Cheers rang out behind him, though Harry was too busy concentrating to be made aware of it. The Northern Army chanted his regal name as they watched him rebuild the road that would lead them to their final goal, apparently with one hand behind his back. As far as they were concerned, he had proven himself to be the most powerful man alive.

Not that he'd ever had to match himself against another mage up to this point.

The French were quick to realize what was going on, however, and efforts redoubled to bring down the King. When that failed, thanks to the King's Guard, they focused on bringing down the bridge. A few daring Frenchmen ran out with explosives, determined to detonate military grade explosives, even at the cost of their lives, to prevent Harry from finishing his damning work.

These were quickly put down by vigilant Northern snipers.

The French artillery, momentarily cowed by the Northern airstrike, soon joined in the effort to keep the bridge in pieces. Realizing the danger these rounds posed, Astoria ordered more mages from the awaiting army to set up a shield over the bridge, to prevent the French from ruining their King's work.

More fighter jets soon blazed overhead, putting down those artillery pieces they'd missed in the initial air strike.

For Harry, however, all he could hear — all he could _think_ of, however, was the bridge. His veins were bulging from the strain to his body. His muscles felt like they'd been put through a shredder. His eyesight, long ago corrected via surgery, had become blurred.

Yet he kept the spell going. He could feel it finishing its work. The last few pieces would soon be in place. His army's path to the enemy headquarters would soon be back in business.

They would have to lead the charge into the heart of Paris without him.

He might've accelerated the Northern Sun's last push into the center of Paris, but he was spent. His magical reserves would barely light a match after he was done here. A pity. He would've loved to unleash a Fiendfyre spell or two against the bigots at the Élysée Palace.

He would have to settle for meeting the French President when he was brought to Harry's headquarters in chains.

His magic buckled. He felt a spasm in his inactive arm. The strain would soon turn physically harmful. He'd seen it before. During the Civil War, the constant bombardment of his headquarters had caused a few mages to die from overexertion as they tried to keep the shield up. It had happened at Sagunto, too.

It could happen to him now.

But fortunately, it didn't.

The last piece of the bridge set itself into place, and he felt his magic stop flowing, the spell having finished its work. Every inch of his body demanded that he collapse to the ground, but his strength of will kept him both on his feet, and conscious.

Slowly, he rose his inactive hand as his casting hand dropped to his side, the entire arm feeling like an unbearable weight. With a simple gesture, he motioned for the Northern Army to advance. However, seeing that the King's gesture might not have been seen by the army behind him, Astoria took great pleasure in turning around, enhancing her voice, and giving the order in his stead.

"ADVANCE!"

It was like a battlecry. The moment she finished the very last syllable, a roar of approval tore through the Northern Army as it surged forward, no longer in a disciplined march but a full on charge.

The MAC Tanks, holding back, soon roared to life as they raced forward, their guns already spotting targets and firing their deadly ordnance over the river, in order to keep the French defenders from reacting to the advance.

Harry watched, using the last of his strength, as soldier after soldier, then armoured vehicles, then tanks all passed by him, unbridled optimism plastered on the faces of his men. They had witnessed a spectacular — and rather idiotic, objectively speaking — display of magic, cementing their nigh-mythological belief in his godlike powers.

Which, while considerable, were neither godlike, nor unlimited.

He let the surge pass by him, Astoria and the other Guards standing by, a little confused as to why he wasn't joining them. Harry gave his Chief Bodyguard a tolerant smile, having guessed the source of her confusion.

"I have done what I can for my men. This is their hour of glory, not mine," he excused his absence from the assault. "They have fought and bled for this moment for months. What sort of King would I be to rob them of the final honor?"

Load of bollocks.

Harry knew that if he had even the slightest bit of strength left, he would've joined the assault and laid waste to his enemies. Restoring the bridge, however, had wiped him out, and he could barely move without practically passing out from either the pain or the sheer exhaustion.

Still, there was an element of truth in his words. Strategically speaking, he knew his men were frustrated by the quagmire the siege had slowly been developing into. More importantly, he understood that they needed a morale boost. While basically lighting the whole of Inner Paris on fire would've probably done the trick too, he'd made the snap judgment to use the bridge repair instead. He was already well known as a destroyer; thus, he could use the reputation boost as a great builder, too. Add to that the unofficial "prize" of letting the troops be the ones to take down the President, and, well...

A rather nice morale boost, altogether.

"Let's go back to the base," Harry told his escorts. Astoria looked at him oddly for a moment before nodding.

"As you wish, sire." she acquiesced before turning to her colleagues. "Back to the base!"

"Wait," Harry stopped them from Disapparating and pointed, using what little strength he had left, to one of the guards. "You. Stay with the army. I want a Pensieve recording of the battle. Stay with the advance force. I want to see the moment that fat pig in the Palace is captured. Make sure he stays alive. Understood?" he asked firmly.

The Guard glanced at Astoria for less than a second before bowing, fist to his chest. "Yes, sire!"

Harry nodded before nodding at Astoria. "Let's go."

A few soft pops later, Harry and his Guards were gone.

* * *

"_Vive la Fra—!_"

The blast of a MAC rifle ended the defiant Frenchman's battlecry in its tracks, the upper half of his head blasted away.

"_Shut the fuck up,_" growled King as he kicked the crumbling soldier's body away.

"Move up, move up!" Ford ordered as he led the SSI in their own assault on the Élysée Palace. Riding on the rails of several Lynxes, the SSI had jumped ahead of the main offensive, eager to be the first ones to take the prize.

In their defense, the mages had tried to do the same, before a couple of them were killed when they Apparated in the middle of a French position.

Dusting off quickly, the Lynxes were soon back in the air and flying off, their weaponry alight as gatling guns and missiles tore up the central district.

"_URA!_" the SSI troopers roared over the comm as they charged forward, rifles firing. Streaks of electric blue light swarmed the French defenses, the black armour-clad troopers quickly suppressing the enemy's response to the blitz attack.

"Castle, Viper, on the roofs!" Ford ordered as he led the charge on the ground, his rifle jumping left to right and up as needed, his pinpoint accuracy ending many a defender's life. At his side, Alice slid into a kneeling position and fired to his right, ending a woman in civilian garb who'd been trying to creep up to Ford with a knife in hand.

Not the first time that had happened, sadly.

Ford paid no attention to it, however. Pointing to the other side of the street, he quickly called up Spearhead and Crimson, Milford's team. "Master Sergeant, take the left side! Clear those buildings!"

"_Yes, First Sergeant!_"

Ford barely registered the group of 14 soldiers detaching from the main thrust, quickly drawing his sidearm and discharging it once at a nearby corpse, unwilling to take chances. No blood — the person had _really_ been dead.

Not that it mattered to him anymore. Ever since the artillery park, he just couldn't find it within himself to take unnecessary risks anymore.

A machine gun nest opened up further ahead. Well outside its effective range, the SSI advance nonetheless stopped as the troopers took cover, in case the French gunner got lucky. Peering over the edge of what _used_ to be a cement plant pot, next to a ruined bus station, Ford glared as he realized the gunners were well hidden behind a makeshift barricade.

"Spectre, you got a shot?" he asked.

"_Negative._" Spectre replied curtly. As expected.

"Milford," Ford spoke up, switching frequencies. "There's a barricade that needs disappearing."

"_On it, First Sergeant_!"

"_I could do it,_" Buchanan told him as she scooted up next to him. He couldn't see her face behind the polarized visor, but Ford knew there was hard frown on her face.

"No," he replied simply.

"_As much as I hate to say this, I agree with Snap, Sarge._" King weighed in from his own cover. "_It'll take Master Sergeant Milford ten minutes to get in place. We can do this now._"

"I said, _no_," Ford repeated himself tersely.

Alice and Liam were quiet in this, but Ford knew they were probably also in favour of doing the job themselves, rather than waiting. He didn't care.

Seeing Bear get wounded like that had been heartbreaking. Seeing him shot, the arterial spray splattering his blood all over the place, had torn at his very soul.

He was _not_ losing another man.

"_Sarge..._" Alice said softly, prompting him to look over at the team medic. She was sitting with her back to her cover, her shoulders slumped and head down. Everything about her screamed defeat. "_We need this. We need this win._"

Ford looked away. He knew they were right, objectively speaking. Their morale had plummeted after the incident, as they called it — unable, as of yet, to admit that they'd lost Bear. Even so...even so, he couldn't bring himself to run another risky ploy. Not with one of his people.

He extended a hand to Buchanan. "Hand it over." he ordered.

The machine gunner cocked her head to the side in confusion. "_What?_"

"Hand over the RPG," he stated firmly. "I got this."

"_Sarge, what the fuck...?!_" King swore. "_That's barmy!_"

"_Christ, John..._" Liam weighed in as well, his second in command uncertain he'd even heard right.

"I'm lead, I take the risks." Ford insisted as he made a motion with his extended hand. "So hand it over, Snap."

Buchanan just stared at him. For a moment, he wondered if that meant she was going to refuse. Then, without a word of warning, her visor depolarized, and he could see her face. Tear marks streaked down her cheeks. Without having even let out a whimper, she'd been crying without their knowledge.

"_Bear is __**my**__ partner, Sarge,_" she reminded him firmly. "_If anyone's lighting those sons of bitches the fuck up, it's __**me**__._"

Ford stared down the petite woman's hard visage. It was hard to argue against that, but he was determined to try.

"I am your superior, Buchanan," he snapped at her in his best military instructor tone of voice. "_Hand. It. Over._"

"_With all due respect, sarge? Bite me._" Buchanan replied tersely. Without warning, her visor polarized again, and she hurtled out of cover, Bear's RPG still strapped to her back. Without care or worry for her own safety, she darted right for the barricade, navigating the debris for cover.

"Shit!" Ford swore as he saw her bolt towards the enemy barricade. On her own, without covering fire, she was a dead woman. Turning around, he raised his rifle over the edge of the concrete flower pot and opened fire. "COVERING FIRE!"

Guardian and the rest of the SSI nearby didn't need telling twice. Streaks of blue light rammed into the enemy barricade ineffectively, though it managed to keep the HMG nest distracted from Buchanan's suicide run.

"Milford! We have one friendly moving towards the barricade!" he warned the other SSI commander. "Hold off on your attack and provide covering fire!"

"_Understood, First Sergeant!_"

"_Fuck, Snap's gone batshit!_" King swore over TEAMCOM as he fired off three shots before ducking in time to avoid the errant machine gun bullets aimed his way. "_Firecracker's going to get herself killed!_"

Ford knew he wasn't wrong. The grief over losing Bear had obviously hit her far worse than she'd readily admitted. Cursing, he started pushing himself off the ground, turning to Liam as he did so. "Liam, you're in charge!" he barked. "Friendly coming out of cover!" he announced to everyone else.

Before Liam or anyone else could protest, he sprung into action, running out of cover and, using the same path Buchanan had, navigated the debris as he made for the barricade.

Finding Buchanan wasn't hard. She was the only person in front of him, still darting towards the barricade like a possessed woman. He jumped over a fallen column, his rifle loosely held in one hand as he pumped the other. All he could hear right now was the beating of his heart and the loud breaths he took as he sprinted towards his subordinate.

"_Three o clock!_"

Ford jumped.

Fortunately for him, the enemy soldier who'd been hiding in an alleyway hadn't expected that, and fired blindly where he'd been, right before a familiar CRACK sounded out and the man crumpled to the ground.

"_Nice dodge,_" Petrovsky praised him.

"Thanks," Ford managed to get out before resuming his run. "Buchanan!" he shouted. "Friendly on your six!"

Buchanan at least had the good sense to reach cover and slide out of sight before looking back, her body language suddenly tense as she reacted to his surprise appearance. Before she could let out one of her infamous strings of curses, he slid into position and bonked her on the helmet.

"You stupid _bitch_!" he chastised her. "What the _fuck_ do you think you were doing?!"

"_Bear—" _she started, but another bonk from his fist quieted her down.

"Bear is _still alive_!" he told her firmly, jabbing a finger at her chestplate. "You're about to _not _be! So get your head back in the fucking game before those assholes mount it up on their fucking fireplace!" he jutted his thumb towards the barricade.

To Ford's credit, he quickly cut off Buchanan from the rest of TEAMCOM, just in time for her to start whimpering, gasping out a bit every time she bit back a sob. Had they not been in a war zone, Ford imagined she might've peeled off her helmet and cried openly.

"_Bear...Bear..._" she sobbed inconsolably.

Ford watched her quietly as she dropped her rifle and drew up her legs, resting her helmeted head on her knees. He drew up a hand, but chose not to smack her out of her grief. Instead, he softly placed it on her helmet and made ready to get up.

"I know how you feel, too," he told her. "Wait here. I got this."

Without another word, he quickly activated the manual release of the RPG's magnetic strap and hauled it onto his shoulder. Before she could stop him, he darted out of cover, earning him a few choice words from Liam and King as they realized what he was about to do.

"Spectre," he simply said as he sprinted towards the barricade. "I'm going to need their heads down for fifteen seconds."

"_Sarge, what the fuck are you DOING?!_" King yelled

"_On it._" Petrovsky answered simply, three more loud cracks sounding out as the marksman aimed for the small slit where the HMG gunner would peer through. A few French curses told Ford his marksman had very nearly ruined someone's day.

Time to change that.

Sliding into position, situated just slightly diagonal of the barricade, no more than thirty feet away, he brought up the launcher just as shouted alarms went up the barricade. Practically in slow motion, he could see the HMG barrels start swiveling towards him.

"Fuck you." Ford grunted as he took quick aim at one of the viewing slits, waited for the confirmation beep from the weapon, and squeezed the trigger.

His body shuddered as the rocket fired, blazing a trail through the air as it raced for the barricade. Screams in French preceded its impact, which had Ford hitting the ground for cover. A deafening explosion took place, enough for his helmet to automatically filter out the noise, though Ford was able to get a quick earful.

Debris rained around him as he lay on the ground, completely out of sight due to the cloud of dust and smoke the explosion had kicked up.

Wild chatter flooded TEAMCOM as Milford demanded an update on the situation and his subordinates tried to explain what he'd done. Through all that, all Ford could do was shake off the concussive effects of the blast and slowly picked himself up.

Groaning at how unbelievably reckless he'd been, he reached for his rifle, only to realize he'd discarded it back where Buchanan had broken down. That meant his only weapon was the spent RPG launcher, and his sidearm.

Waving away the dust and smoke, he looked about to see the extent of the damage. His HUD, too, was going crazy. Between the blast and the dust cloud, it was working overtime to get things in order.

"_Sarge! Sarge, are you there?!_"

Ford drew his sidearm, as a precaution, and tried to clear up his limited vision with his other hand. "I'm here," he confirmed. "Can't tell the extent of the damage, though."

"_Crazy bastard...nearly gave me a heart attack there, Sarge!_" Liam noted, sounding utterly relieved.

"_Fuck a heart attack!_" King interjected. "_I thought my brain was about to explode!_"

Ford smiled as he still tried to get his bearings straight. "That would require _having_ a brain to begin with, King," he noted jokingly. He was glad when laughter greeted his remark. Just like the good old days.

Still, he had a traumatized subordinate to worry about. "Buchanan, you there?" he called her up, finally reaching the edge of the cloud. When he emerged, he noticed he'd been walking back to his own lines.

The sound of a rifle discharging answered him, and he quickly turned around, just in time to see a Frenchman drop dead, a gaping hole in his chest. Looking to his left, he saw Buchanan slowly marching up to him, her rifle in hand, his on her back.

"_I'm here,_" she said. Without another word, she unstrapped his rifle and tossed it to him, which he gratefully caught. "_I thought SSI didn't ever lose their rifles, sarge._"

Ford cracked a smile. "Old habits die hard, Buchanan," he said lamely before bumping fists with her. "Ready to roll?"

She stared at him for a moment before nodding. "_Fuck yeah. This one's for Bear, yeah?_"

Ford grinned behind his visor. "Damn straight."

* * *

_**Palace d'Élysée, Paris...**_

He had never thought it would go this far.

Never. Never, never, never, never.

Never in a million years did he ever expect this petty disagreement with the Northern Sun would herald the ruin of his country! His advisors had insisted that a strong attitude, a firm voice, would force the pseudo-British upstarts to back down! To listen to the word of the _real_ European superpower!

How utterly deluded he'd been!

Henri Lemarc, President of the French Republic, was terrified.

And with good reason, as he heard it. His generals, all so confident, all so full of bluster, had been convinced that a small skirmish would be, at worst, all that would happen with the Northern Sun. Win or lose, the North would quickly sue for peace, and diplomacy would take over.

The usual way. The European way.

But no. They hadn't. Against everything his "expert advisors" had told him, the Northern Sun, and their ETO allies, had launched not just a skirmish, but a _full blown invasion_. Hadn't this simply supposed to be a small border war? Hadn't the Northern forces supposed to have been stopped by diplomatic entreaties?

If so, why were they now invading Paris?! After having virtually conquered the rest of the country, they were now in the very heart of the Republic, their advanced weaponry tearing the crown jewel of Europe asunder!

His advisors were no use. The confidence they'd exuded had quickly turned to horror and deluded ignorance. Much like him, they'd been caught by surprise by the viciousness of the Northern-led war, and simply could not reconcile it with their own estimates.

And the _Front Nationale_...

Oh, the _Front Nationale_!

Those lunatics had kept pushing, and pushing! Its radical elements had swallowed the conservative movement whole! Legislator after legislator fell under the powerful economic sway of their fanatically anti-magic doctrine! Ultraconservatives drowned out the voices of reason in his government, until even the DGSE was so corrupted that it would no longer pay heed to him!

And then the defections! The First Army, first, then the Third! The Fourth and Second!

His generals insisted these were isolated incidents at first, but how could he possibly believe that when the reports clearly showed that entire units were jumping ship, as the Yanks were so fond of saying?

And that woman, _La Pucelle_! Her infernal terrorist group had collaborated throughout the war with the invaders, throwing away her proud heritage for...God knew what! Power? Money? A place in the King's bed? _Who_ _knew_ what drove that lunatic woman?!

Lemarc groaned pitifully as he rested his head in his hands, leaning on his ornate desk. Everything had gone so wrong. Ever since his predecessor had listened to the far right, everything had gone to the shitter! And then that massacre in Germany! His predecessor's resignation! His own promotion to President!

Why hadn't he _refused_?!

Outside, he could hear the sound of gunfire and explosions. Even behind all this soundproofing, deep in his executive bunker, there was no mistaking the sound of his impending doom.

Would they kill him? Capture him?

He knew he was widely detested amongst his enemies. Between their propaganda, lies, and outright fabrication, he no doubt ranked about as low as Lucifer himself! He wouldn't have been surprised to learn he was slated for immediate execution.

He'd heard stories about Swift, in particular, which led him to believe there would be a mass execution of everyone left alive.

His head thudded softly against his desk as he wallowed in his misery. His bodyguards — what few of them remained, stayed vigilantly at his side, making no comment on his attitude. Most of their companions would be outside, fighting shoulder-to-shoulder with whatever partisans and loyal soldiers remained, in a desperate last stand against the Northern Sun.

But they would fail. There was no other way but failure, for the French now.

He wished he could go back in time. Wished he could've swayed his predecessor on the issue of Mage Rights. If they'd acted like the British...like the Northern Sun...then maybe he would not have to suffer the ignominy of being the last President of the Republic.

"_La France survivra, Monsieur Président._"

Lemarc paid no heed to his bodyguard's words. France will survive? What a joke. Survive how? Through a rebel movement? As a nation? Neither were true. Neither were possible.

This was no repeat of World War II. Their opponents were not universally hated. _No one_ would come to their aid. They had burned so many bridges, he was frankly surprised more countries hadn't actually _helped_ the ETO invade!

And even if another Resistance was organized, who would come relieve them? Where would the guns come from? Neither Germany nor Russia were eager to see France return to glory, not after having pushed for the destruction of the Soviet Union and having invaded Germany over what he personally considered a rather flimsy excuse.

His predecessor had attempted to recapture the glory of Napoleon. What he had failed to realize was that he was not Napoleon, and the other nations wouldn't take the attempt lying down.

"_Nous sommes finis._" he muttered under his breath. France was done. The Republic, which countless generations had bled for, was being brought to its knees, likely never to resurge again.

All because of the mages. The one lynchpin event that France had faltered with, and made the wrong choice.

The explosions outside sounded louder now. The gunfire and screaming did, too.

He looked up, laying his hands on the table, at the reinforced steel and concrete door that kept his office sealed from the outside world. His final refuge. His jail.

His bodyguards reacted to the louder noises by bringing up their FAMAS assault rifles. How honorable of them to think of their duty even now. He would not have blamed them if they'd thrown down their weapons and surrendered. Any normal human being would do so, after all. It was mere human nature to preserve themselves.

And regrettably, he would not be offered that chance, probably.

There would be no deals. No negotiation. He could bluster and demand a negotiation for peace terms, but the truth of the matter was that all he would get is a document declaring France surrendered and submitted, and he would be forced to sign it. If he didn't, they'd probably shoot him and find his successor and make _him_ do it.

The idea of refusing was appealing, in its own way. Who wanted to be known as the man who surrendered the homeland? What a dreadful legacy to leave behind! His children would likely have to change their names and appearances to distance themselves from his disgrace.

But there was no real honor in that sort of death. Not in this case. The North would likely bury his refusal behind a lie, then force his successor to comply anyway. He would never be known as the great traitor, or the great hero. In a few generations, he was sure he would simply _not_ be known.

Or, if he was, he would be held up as an example of all that was wrong. No small act such as this would save his memory.

And he feared death, really.

Another explosion. This one was louder, more violent. The very room shook a bit, despite the intricate systems designed to minimize the concussive impact on the room and its occupants. That meant the North was nearer. His doom was nearer now.

"_C'est finis._" he told his bodyguards idly as he softly let his head fall back, closing his eyes as he reflected on the grievous mistakes he had made.

He should never have listened to that infernal Front Nationale woman. He should never have agreed to take this thrice accursed position. He should have granted the mages their rights and in so doing, be spared of La Pucelle, this war, _and_ the Northern Sun!

He should've protested against the invasion of Germany. He should've pushed for reconciliation and dialogue when the lights went out. He should've avoided using war as a rallying point.

He should've just stayed out of politics.

The door thudded loudly. The gunfire and explosions died down. His bodyguards, either ignoring his words or unsure what to do, kept their FAMAS assault rifles at the ready, glancing amongst themselves as they silently decided how best to proceed. If the gunfire had died down, it meant they were the only ones left.

The door thudded even louder now. Was someone trying to break it down?

Lemarc scoffed in amusement. Not even an attempt to negotiate for his surrender, without further bloodshed. They probably _wanted_ him to resist, so they could justify putting a bullet through his head.

He lowered his head so his eyes remained level with the door. Again, another thud. The bodyguards were incredibly tense. He briefly wondered if perhaps they were feeling cramped.

The thudding stopped.

Lemarc raised an eyebrow. What could this mean?

Then, three clear knocks, and Lemarc felt surprise. Were they trying to communicate with him? With his bodyguards?

He got his answer pretty soon. In an instant, the door vanished, and three objects tumbled in. His guards, surprised by the sudden disappearance of the door, reacted too slowly as the flashbangs did their work, causing Lemarc to cry out in pain as the sudden flashes and loud bangs deafened and blinded him.

Before he even realized what had happened, he was roughly slammed into his desk, a very cold piece of iron poking him hard at his nape. Slowly, he managed to make out shouting sounds — indistinct, but there. He briefly cried out, "What?!", feeling rather amazed at how far off and muted his voice sounded. The cold iron at his nape poked harder. He blinked away stars as he felt his hands being roughly pulled in front of him and something being wrapped around them, biting into his flesh as it was tightly wrapped.

He gave a brief cry of pain, and he thought he heard laughter. They enjoyed his suffering, did they? Just as he thought.

Still blinking away effects of the flashbang, he slowly managed to make out colours...then shapes. His head kept squished against the table on its side, he managed to glance up at a man wearing full, black body armour, their face hidden behind a polarized visor. By his side, another such man took off his helmet, revealing a Caucasian male sporting a shaved head and a bit of a stubble.

"President Henri Lemarc?" the man asked him, using obvious English intonations. Even upon his capture, the enemy would not afford him the grace of speaking to him in his native language.

"_Oui_..." he mumbled out.

The shaved man grinned wickedly. "I am First Sergeant John Ford," he announced. "Northern Army Special Shock Infantry. You are my prisoner, sir."

Lemarc closed his eyes. To add to the ignobility of his situation, he had been captured by a mere First Sergeant. Not even an officer.

His defeat was complete.

"I understand." Lemarc managed to say, using English to avoid giving them a chance to willingly misinterpret his intent to justify shooting him. "As President of the French Fifth Republic and its territories, I surrender."

The man's grin grew wider by a fraction. "Good to know. Snap?"

Before Lemarc could understand what the man was talking about, he felt a sharp blow to the back of his head, and blacked out.

* * *

_**Post-AN: **Next chapter will deal with the aftermath of the war. It'll also help start the chain of events that will draw the continent to the brink of war once more. As one sharp reviewer mentioned, the North is riding the tiger, and the tiger's not about to stop!_


	33. Chapter XXXIII: Guilt

_**AN: **So, here we go. France is done with, and the Northern Sun begins to breathe more easily now that their greatest foe has been subjugated. But how long will that last? Read on and find out!_

_Cheers,_

_MB_

* * *

_**Outskirts of L'Aigle, French Occupied Territories, October 3, 2017...**_

"_Defodio!_"

The spell carved a neat row in the ground, displacing grass and rock alike as the last row in the crop field took shape. The mage lowered his wand, pleased with his work, as he turned to the nearby farmer, who looked a bit uneasy by what he just saw.

"There," the mage declared. "All done."

The older man looked at the mage worriedly for a moment before slowly nodding. There was a bag of seeds in his hand, courtesy of the ETO's Office for Refugee Aid, which were all magically enhanced to promote crop growth and output.

"_Merci_," the farmer mumbled as he shuffled past the mage, anxiously looking over to where he could see his wife and children standing aside as other mages built them a new home.

All of them wore the feared bluecoats of the Military Mages.

The mage, actually a member of the Military Mage's Agricultural Corps, or AGRICORPS, watched amusedly as the man slowly began to spread the seeds along the neatly made rows. Within maybe a week or so, he and his family would be receiving a modified tractor, for more efficient seeding and gathering. Unfortunately, it'd taken the factories back in the Northern Sun a hell of a lot longer to pump them out than predicted.

The mage raised his hand as he saw a glint in the distance, near where the road was. Soon, a convoy of military trucks roared by, carrying Northern soldiers on patrol, no doubt. Despite the ETO's total victory over the French Republic, there was still an element of disorder left that needed dealing with. Crime was on the rise in many of the big cities, where the troops were having a harder time cracking down.

Towns like L'Aigle, however, were pretty quiet. For the most part, these people understood the situation well enough to leave alone, and the fact that a single battalion of soldiers could garrison them — or less, even — meant that they tried very hard to stay out of trouble.

The mage wrinkled his nose as a familiar, noxious odor reached his nostrils. Looking to his side, he frowned as he caught his assigned partner, a French soldier who'd defected over with the First Army, smoking quietly.

"Do you have to do that?"

The soldier glanced at him before snorting. "You take my country, now you want my _cigarettes_, too, _mon ami_?" he asked amusedly. The mage grimaced. He hadn't quite meant it that way, but he supposed the man had a point.

"At least try smoking downwind," the mage asked simply. The soldier chuckled as he shifted the FAMAS rifle slung onto his back. Even so, he didn't move. And frankly, the mage wasn't in the mood to fight.

He knew there was resentment even amongst those who had defected. People like his partner had fought for their country for years, only to see it brought low and then disbanded. For many soldiers of the old French Armed Forces, it had led to their immediate resignation, preferring to live out the rest of their lives as civilians rather than fight for a foreign nation. For others, like the mage's partner, serving was merely a means to an end — a paycheck and food on the table.

Though it didn't mean they'd act nice for it.

"You Northerners are so _amusant_," the soldier remarked suddenly, prompting the mage's attention. The soldier seemed fixated on the older man spreading the seeds in the dug rows. "You invade our country, you destroy it, and then you fix our lives. Some might say you have _une conscience coupable_."

The mage didn't need the man to translate to know what he was talking about. Guilty conscience. He, like many others, had wondered about that. Was the Northern Sun's attempt to restore these peoples' lives a way to atone for some misdeeds? Hadn't their invasion been just and necessary?

"The King's charity merely reflects his good intentions," the mage rebuked the man.

The soldier laughed, his cigarette dangling from his lip. "I have yet to see a king who hasn't thought of himself first and foremost, _mon ami_. I doubt I ever will."

The words were treasonous — and as the Frenchman was now effectively _part _of the Northern Sun, he _was_ being treasonous — but the mage let it slide. He chalked it up to bitterness and resentment, which would pass, in time, as the ETO improved the lives of the people.

Already, the ETO's ORA had managed to relocate hundreds of thousands of refugees to their new homes, in so doing keeping with the ETO's agreed framework for Reconstruction. As a result, much of France would be redivided, reorganized, restructured. Many of the old towns would disappear, to make way for forests and croplands, while some cities and towns would grow and prosper as centers of industry and services.

Always in such a way that the ETO could later quickly put down a rebellion, if it came to that.

These farmers, for instance, were but one family of a thousand more that had been relocated to L'Aigle, which was rebranded as a farming town. The food of the ETO would be grown, in part, around here, for the benefit of all. Farmers and their families had been specially plucked out of the refugee camps for this ambitious project, and foodstuffs and materials had been confiscated, rebuilt, or commissioned to aid them in their efforts to make a new life out here.

This one family, for instance, had originally hailed from southern France.

The mage looked back at the homestead being built. His fellow mages were doing good work, quickly assembling the home as per the pre-made blueprints' designs. In time, the idea was for most of these homes to be prefabricated, then shrunk and transported as needed. For now, though, each home would be quickly built by Military Mages.

A better future for these people. A future of guaranteed liberties, peace, and prosperity, all under the mantle of the Northern Sun.

Overhead, Northern Lynxes flew by.

* * *

_**Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, October 5, 2017...**_

"And it is with great pleasure that we welcome Ms. Burbage to our ranks, as our newest Minister for Education," Sirius announced with a pleased smile as he led a standing ovation for his newest member of the cabinet.

The other 11 members of the cabinet followed suit, including Queen Elicia's representative, as the witch pinked up in embarrassment. Like many other mages who'd jumped ship from Albion, she seemed rather uncomfortable in the rather bland accoutrement of Muggle professional society. Even so, she'd been exhilarated to find out that the government had wanted her to lead the newly formed Ministry.

"Thank you, Prime Minister, dear colleagues," she managed to get out, rather embarrassed. "You do me great kindness."

There was a soft chuckle amongst the cabinet as they slowly retook their seats. For most of them, having something to celebrate was something of a novelty, after so many years at war. Being able to finally make the Ministry of Education separate from the Ministry of the Masses — something James had pushed for these past few years — had been a wonderful realization of the Northern dream.

"Yes, the Prime Minister does so enjoy to embarrass us at every given opportunity," Warwick noted wryly as he flipped open his folder, ready to get down to business. He shot Sirius a smirk to lessen the sting of the statement.

"A little levity goes a long way towards cooperation, I find, my dear Duke," Sirius answered smoothly as he followed suit in opening his folder. With that, the rest of the cabinet settled down as they, too imitated the Foreign Minister and the Prime Minister. Sirius looked down at the agenda in his folder for a moment before glancing up at his colleagues. "Now, then. To work, shall we?"

He flipped the page. "First issue on our agenda is the matter of the President of France," he reminded them. "Or rather, the _ongoing_ issue."

James frowned as he sat back, already looking stubborn. "I still say that's a matter for the civilian courts. We can't be trying foreign leaders as though they were military criminals! Everyone knows what the tribunals will do to him!"

Sirius could practically predict things from here. Curtis, as Minister for Defense, had lobbied every meeting of the cabinet they'd had for jurisdiction over the President of France's trial for crimes against humanity. James, however, had been adamant that the man be tried in a civilian court, where the judges wouldn't so easily hand out the death penalty.

Their allies, on the other hand, wanted an ETO-led trial. As Joshua had relayed, their allies wanted the Northern Sun to acknowledge ETO support in the war by allowing them a fair say in the fate of the President of France. They, too, had a bone to pick with him, it seemed.

The problem was, James didn't believe the ETO trial would lead to anything but the same conclusion as a military tribunal, which was automatic death penalty. After too many deaths, he'd come around to the idea that there was no real need to execute the man. _No one_ in either the military or their allied governments agreed with that.

Curtis, however, insisted that the Northern forces had borne the brunt of the war, and so deserved the right to put down their most hated foe. It wasn't unreasonable, but it _was_ diplomatically nightmarish to explain to their allies.

The problem was, however, that despite the fact that the ETO was pretty much in agreement already on this, the Northern Sun was the only member nation that hadn't made up its mind. Sirius' cabinet was almost evenly split. James had rallied support from Communications, Health, Sport, and Science and Technology, while Curtis had rallied support amongst the SIS, Civil Service (which had caused James to look at his son with some despair), the Treasury, and the Foreign Office — though the last one was conditioned support; Joshua had made it clear that he supported the ETO's initiative on this one, but if that was impossible, then he supported the military tribunal, which would likely appease the ETO somewhat.

A quick statement from the King and Queen would've solved this, he figured, but Harry and Elicia were no help.

Elicia had delegated her position as head of Science and Technology to a representative, choosing to stay within her lab rather than delve into the politics of everything, while Harry had seemed amused at the conundrum and chosen to stay out of it. When pressed, they both stated they just wanted time together and with Katerina.

Sirius thought they were just trolling him.

"There is no reason why we can't compromise," Sirius insisted as the discussion wound up, threatening to spill into heated verbal matches. He ignored Warwick's incredulous snort. Looking to Burbage, who seemed rather taken aback by the force of the discussion, he nodded at her in acquiescence. "Why don't we hear from our newest member?" he proposed, hoping she had a game changing solution in mind so he could finally be rid of this headache. "Well, Minister Burbage? Do you have any thoughts on the matter?"

The whole cabinet went silent as they turned to look at Burbage, who seemed, again, rather taken aback as her colleagues turned to her for guidance on this matter...if there was any to be had. As far as she could tell, this was one of those no-win situations. Even so, perhaps there was a compromise to be found, as the Prime Minister had suggested.

"Well...uh..." she faltered for a moment, trying to reorganize her thoughts. Sirius already began to regret his decision. Perhaps throwing in a junior minister into the lion's den, so to speak, hadn't been the best of ideas.

Burbage swallowed. "To...to be honest, why not have it both ways?" she asked.

Silence greeted her suggestion.

She glanced about, wondering if her colleagues thought her mad, now. Wouldn't _that_ be a nice way to start off a brand new job as a Cabinet Minister?

"Interesting," Sirius spoke up then, leaning forward and leaning against his clasped hands. "Please, go on."

Burbage blinked, gathered her thoughts and nodded. "The way I understand it, Mr. Potter doesn't believe the military tribunals will offer Mr. Lemarc a fair trial, while General Curtis, rightly so, argues that most people just want to see him hanged. And, if I'm not mistaken, our allies want to settle their own scores with the Lemarc...right?" she asked Warwick, who nodded slowly. "So set up a tribunal of military and civilian judges. Have the former French military provide his defense counsel, while the ETO submits a team of lawyers of each plaintiff nation, and make it very, very public."

Sirius raised an eyebrow. That wasn't a bad idea at all. He could please James' desire for a fair trial (or as fair as could possibly be mustered, all things considered), Curtis' desire to see Lemarc finally hang (which, let's face it, was probably going to happen), and the ETO's desire for participation in such a trial. If he stacked the judges with Northern voices, he was sure he could also assuage Curtis' desire for a Northern trial, rather than an international one.

And if the trial went off without a hitch, it'd piss off the opposition to no end.

Win-win.

Sirius smiled gratefully at Burbage as he leaned forward and pointed his pen at James, then Joshua. "You two know what to do," he stated imperiously. "Get the wheels moving on this. I want that man on trial in the next two weeks, at very most. Understood?"

Both ministers nodded, quickly taking notes. Sirius smiled, pleased to have this debacle off his plate at long last, and returned to his folder's contents. "Alright, then. Next up is the upcoming inauguration of Manchester Memorial Stadium," he reminded his cabinet. "Clancy, are we still set for Liverpool F.C. and Manchester United to go head to head?"

The Minister for Sport nodded. "Quite," he confirmed. "Both coaches are quite honored to have been selected for the inaugural match of the Northern Cup."

"Make them earn it on the field," Sirius warned him. "The people have been looking for a sense of normalcy, and this is going to be a huge help towards giving them that. Make sure there are _no_ disruptions." he added to James, who snorted.

"No more than usual after a Man U-Liverpool game, anyway," the Minister for the Masses noted wryly. The other ministers, save Burbage, chuckled in amusement.

Sirius smiled as the tense atmosphere left the room. They'd all worked for so long under wartime pressures that he'd nearly forgotten how to relax. With the war over, the less critical, but no less important issues could take front row once again, allowing them to fulfill the vision they all had for a better Northern Sun.

Once again, he could focus on doing real good.

* * *

_**Manchester Military Hospital, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, October 7, 2017...**_

"There he is!"

Bear growled as King barged into the room, followed soon by the rest of Fireteam Guardian. The sandy-haired young man grinned at Bear's distaste for his loud entries and bumped him on the shoulder lightly, prompting another frown.

"What's the matter?" he asked with a grin. "C'mon, spit it out!" he taunted, knowing full well Bear couldn't do any such thing.

While Bergstein's neck wound had been non-fatal, he'd come damn close to death, and only a stasis medical spell had managed to keep him alive long enough for the doctors to basically stitch his neck back together.

And while the magic had served its purpose to ensure he didn't bleed out, they still wanted him to avoid talking for a while. Just in case.

Which obviously meant he could only really communicate via growls...which thoroughly amused King.

"Knock it off, King," Ford half-chided his subordinate as he took his place by Bear's bedside and clasped forearms with the big man. "Doctor says you should be good to leave in a couple of days, big man."

Bear growled neutrally, prompting a grin from King. Before he was able to make any smart-alec comment, however, Buchanan promptly smacked him upside the head. This prompted another, briefer growl from Bear.

"He says 'thanks,'" Ford told Buchanan, prompting a chuckle from Alice.

"Don't mention it," Buchanan said wryly, crossing her arms over her chest. "Any reason to smack King is a good reason for me."

Even Petrovsky, who was standing silently by the door, snorted at that one.

"Still don't get why they don't just let him go," Buchanan noted as she plopped down on Bear's other side, looking like a protective mother from the way her face was set in an almost-perpetual glare. "They fixed the bullet wound, right? Why isn't he back out there, kicking ass with the rest of us?"

Bear growled. Buchanan rolled her eyes.

"Don't you growl at me," she warned him. "I'm not the lazy fucking ass who's all good to go kill some enemies of the Sun but won't!"

"Settle down, Snap," Ford intervened then, before Bear did something that would make Buchanan smack him. "Bear might be fine physically, but they're keeping him under observation, alright? He did get shot, after all. Who knows?" he nudged Bear in the arm. "Maybe the big man's got some of his killer instinct dulled."

Bear snorted, to show what he thought of that.

"Besides," Ford turned his attention to the rest of his Fireteam. "War's over. No more fighting. SSI's been ordered to stand down for now. Half of the teams are getting cycled into reserves."

"Including us?" King asked, a little hopefully.

Liam snorted. "Hell no," he answered before Ford could. "Let Guardian go? SSI'd fall to pieces in an hour without us. Nah, the brass hates you so much, King, they're ordering Guardian to remain one of the standing Fireteams, just in case."

"Son of a..."

Ford chuckled at the byplay, but soon decided to set things straight. "Liam's half-right," he confirmed. "Every member of Guardian is being offered a chance to muster out with full honours," he informed the team, revealing part of the reason he'd organized this Fireteam outing to visit Bear. Less people to hunt down to tell the news, that way. "But Guardian, the designation, stays as a standing Fireteam."

He brought out a small electronic tablet and tapped in his password upon due prompt. Then, with another few gestures, each member of Guardian looked puzzlingly at their pockets as their own portable tablets beeped. "That's the discharge request form," he told them. "You send them to me, I sign them, and you're out. Lord knows you all deserve it a hundred times over."

He watched as his subordinates — or soon to be ex-subordinates — each reach for and open the file on their devices, with Buchanan helping Bear with his. There was a moment of silence as they each contemplated the file, though Ford understood why — it was a big decision. They'd all been fighting from day one in this war, in the single most dangerous operations of the war, all the while nearing the completion date of their mandatory 2-year tour of duty.

Guardian had served with distinction, both before and after it had earned the honour of being made into its own unit. His superiors had all agreed that, despite their skills and battle honours, each one of them deserved the chance to retire into civilian life.

"What about you, sarge?" Alice asked suddenly, breaking the tense silence. Five more pairs of eyes turned to look at him, putting Ford on the spot. Closing his eyes, he sighed in resignation. He knew this would sway more than a few minds, and he really hadn't wanted that. He wanted them all to make up their own minds.

"I refused," he told them simply. "Signed up for four more years."

Silence. "The fuck would you do something like that for?" King blurted out then, looking more than a little shocked. "Sarge, that was your ticket out!"

From the looks of the rest of his men, none of them — save Petrovsky, who was unreadable as always — disagreed with King. Touching, but unnecessary.

He shrugged. "I'm no good in civvie life," he explained himself simply. "Can't cook, don't like offices, and I sure as hell ain't about to work for some paranoid twat who wants some private security army to himself." he added. "I'm good at what I do here, and we all know there's never a shortage of fights these days."

Again, silence in the room, but Ford could see many of them rethinking their decisions already.

Time to nix that.

"Do what you guys want to do," he told them firmly, prompting them to pay attention again. "I may be no good in civvie life, but that doesn't mean you all are the same."

King snorted. "Right. 'Cause let's not forget, Bear there either joined up or went to jail, Snap's likely to tear any boss she gets limb from limb if they gets testy with her," he noted sarcastically, prompting an agreeing growl from the hospitalized soldier in question and a nod from Buchanan. King then thumbed his own chest. "And I got caught jacking cars. Not exactly civvie material, boss."

Liam sighed in his seat, lowering his head. "I joined up to avoid unemployment," he groused as he reminded his best friend regarding his own circumstances. "Couldn't afford higher education, either. Not many savory types who'd look to hire an uneducated grunt who's only good at shooting, John."

"Not leaving," Petrovsky then weighed in curtly, as usual rather spartan in his words.

Ford grimaced as he realized they were right. For the most part, including himself, Guardian were specialized warriors, not exactly good at anything else. Even though King could probably boast some rather amazing electronics skills, his past would likely come around to get him fired eventually — along with his uncontrollable need to question authority. Bear had a criminal past, too, and though it was expunged thanks to his heroic service, he was also, at heart, a warrior. Beyond bouncer or private security, neither of which would really keep Bear out of trouble, John couldn't rightly see any positive career choice for the big man.

Snap was the worst. Her temper, combined with lethal combat abilities, meant she was a danger to everyone around her who _wasn't_ a trained soldier. She'd probably end up bouncing job to job, until she finally was unable to find employment, period.

Petrovsky...well...

Ford had to give it to the silent man; there was no career choice for the marksman that came to mind that _wouldn't_ segue into serial killing. Maybe police sniper? Even then, Ford doubted it, because the Northern Police weren't ones for giving many green lights on sniper targets.

Alice, however...

Slowly, every pair of eyes turned to Alice, who'd remained silent as she watched the digital form on her tablet. Out of all of them, she had the best transferrable skills. With her knowledge of emergency medical treatment, she could easily transfer into being an EMT or outright ER doctor, or nurse. A good life. A fulfilling life.

"Alice..." Buchanan spoke up softly.

"I know," the medic cut off her friend just as softly, but firmly. "I could...I could be a doctor. Or even a nurse."

She seemed hesitant, despite the cautious excitement in her voice. Ford didn't blame her. Alice was being torn between her loyalty to her unit and the obvious temptation to leave military life. Ford recalled Alice's confession to him in Chiny regarding her fleeting intent to commit suicide. The way she'd had her gaze glazed over as she'd looked at the very spot where they all thought they were going to die.

Perhaps she needed this change more than she realized.

"If you want this, do it," Ford told her simply. He watched the woman slowly raise her eyes to meet his, part of her lower lip sucked in as she nibbled nervously.

"But..." she glanced at the others, then back at him, then back down to the tablet.

"Do whatever you think is right, Doc," King told her, unnaturally somber. Usually, the team could rely on him to liven things up, but even he knew that this wasn't really a moment for jokes.

Alice looked down at her tablet in silence, clear indecision marring her features. Then, before their eyes, she clenched her eyes, muttered, "Frak it," and made a few gestures. Within a second, Ford's tablet beeped, and he felt his stomach dropped.

Alice had made her decision.

As he opened Alice's request, however, he was surprised by the vibrant red dot next to her application. Looking back up at the medic, he saw her trembling lip stiffen as the indecision slowly melted away.

"We're a team, sarge," she told him as firmly as she could muster. "We leave together or we don't."

Ford let out a relieved sigh he hadn't known he was holding in, even as King and Buchanan whooped in joy, with the petite machine gunner rushing over to give her sole female comrade within the unit a firm hug.

Fireteam Guardian would live to see another day, it seemed.

* * *

_**American Embassy, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, November 13, 2017...**_

"Ambassador!" Warwick greeted his host warmly.

Said official turned around and smiled at the Duke toothily, her smile as radiant as her jewelry. "Your Grace, what a pleasure to see you again!" she answered in kind.

Joshua smiled and gave her a gracious kiss on her extended hand, prompting an amused chuckle from the representative of the United States. "You look radiant as always, my dear," he flattered her before straightening up and waving his free hand towards his wife, who came as beckoned. "You remember my wife, yes?"

The American Ambassador nodded kindly as she exchanged greetings with the Duchess of Warwick. "Of course, of course," she said. "I believe we met...three months ago? At my appointment ceremony, yes?"

Warwick's wife nodded with a smile. "Your memory serves you well, Madame Ambassador," she said graciously.

"Oh, please, call me Jane," the official insisted as she waved for one of the waiters to come nearer. "Glass of champagne for you both?" she offered. "Straight from my husband's cellar — he's so proud of it, you know?"

Warwick smiled at the butler as he was handed a glass. "Well, then, I'd love to see what he holds in such high regards," he said as he accepted the drink after having passed on the first glass to his wife. He raised the flute in an impromptu toast. "I'm aware we'll likely have another toast later, but for now...to your health, dear Jane, and to the continued good relations between our countries. Cheers!"

"Cheers!" the Ambassador and his wife chorused as they joined him in his toast.

As he drank, however, he exchanged a glance with his wife, who silently understood his request and smiled at the Ambassador as she lowered her glass, still half-full. "If you'll excuse me, I think I need to go powder my nose," she stated with a genial smile, surreptitiously squeezing her husband's arm in silent support.

"Of course, of course," the Ambassador said as she made a short curtsy to match the Duchess'.

Left with the Ambassador, Warwick smiled at his colleague after having drank another good mouthful of champagne, in order to build up some courage.

Fortunately for both of them, the Ambassador wasn't slow-witted by any measure of the word. Giving Warwick a sly smile, she nudged her head towards a nearby door, smiling and greeting other guests as she did so. "I imagine whatever it is you want to discuss should be best suited to a private location?"

Warwick's smile was tight, and didn't quite reach his eyes. "Quite," he agreed. Together, the two officials made their way towards the side-room. At the door, Joshua noted that the Ambassador gave a subtle nod to both Marine guards in full ceremonial garb. Both men stiffened in salute, though one reached out to open the door for him and the Ambassador.

Once inside, Joshua noted that even this side-room had been rather lavishly decorated for the occasion. Perhaps as a sign of the resurgent American economy's strength?

Either way, he waited for the Ambassador to sit down on a plush couch before taking a seat opposite hers.

"Really, Warwick," she chided him playfully, dispensing with official protocol. "Always so distant."

Joshua shrugged and spread his hands apologetically. "I'm afraid the situation merits it, my dear Jane," he stated neutrally. "I'm here at the Prime Minister's request, and at the King's, too. They have concerns."

The American official raised an eyebrow. "Oh? About what?" she asked, playing dumb.

Joshua had little time for that, however. "You _know_ what," he told her firmly. "Your moves in Canada. The sale of FCE tech to Germany and Russia. Militarizing your Mages. Good lord, Jane, what _haven't_ you Yanks done that _wouldn't_ cause us concern?"

The woman opposite him remained calm in the face of his accusations. "In our defense, Warwick, you started it." she reminded him before taking another drink from her flute and setting it on a nearby high-end end table. "Canada is a solid strategic move for us, especially with the Mexican 'Empire'" she actually _did_ the air quotes, to Joshua's amusement, "having swarmed the southwest. We need the resources if we're going to beat those fanatical bigots."

Joshua frowned. "Are you saying our aid hasn't been enough?" he asked her seriously.

She just stared him down. "I'm saying it could be _more_," she corrected him. "We know your King has been eyeing Canada. Who wouldn't?" she noted absently as she ran her long, graceful fingers along the flute on the end table, keeping her gaze fixed on it. "A former British colony, full of resources, full of uninhabited lands, great, big Plains suited for farming. Everything a nascent little Empire like yours would need to keep expanding."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're—" Joshua began, only to be interrupted by a very unladylike snort.

"Please," the woman casually dismissed his words. "Don't insult my intelligence, Warwick. Or the collective intelligence of the American government. We know _exactly_ what your King intends to do. A united Europe? Rather ambitious of him, if I may say so," she told him with an amused smile. "Most of my colleagues in Philadelphia think it's _too_ ambitious, but _I_ think he's got the balls for it. So, kudos."

Despite the rather bold vocabulary, Joshua couldn't really refute her words. Nor was it entirely unexpected — for years, the SIS and his Foreign Office had both independently concluded that as nations recovered from the Blackout, many of their intelligence offices would quickly recognize the pattern of events that the Northern Sun was pushing for.

Their only real salvation was that no one had managed to discover that the Blackout had been planned and carried out by the Northern Sun. Everyone seemed in agreement that it had been the Death Eaters.

Such convenient scapegoats.

"Very well," Joshua stated neutrally. "Assuming you're right, then _if_ that _is_ our goal, then wouldn't it be in the United States' best interests not to interfere? I imagine the markets of a unified Europe would be better for you than a continent divided."

The woman smiled toothily. "You'd be surprised," she told him smoothly. "Some of our economists seem to favour a divide and conquer approach to economics."

Warwick tensed. If that was so, then the Northern Sun and the United States would soon enough meet in battle, and that was a war _no one_ wanted to see. His actions prompted a giggle from his American host.

"Oh, calm down, Warwick," she chided him playfully. "Are all you Northern men so uptight? I said some, dear, not _all_. Besides, the government is in agreement with the Northern Sun's objectives at this time," she reassured him with a smile that held no warmth in it.

"But you want more aid," Warwick deduced calmly, spreading his hands. "You'll leave Canada to us, in exchange for more aid in beating back the Mexicans."

She snorted. "Not just beat back," she corrected him. "Destroyed; but yes, that's accurate enough, I suppose."

Joshua was silent for a moment before nodding. "I believe something could be arranged," he offered cautiously. "But what about the sale of FCE tech to Germany and Russia? You're well aware that both nations have harboured anti-Northern partisans in the past. It could be misconstrued as an intent to foster a war."

The American Ambassador merely smiled. "It's just good business," she qualified it. "And really, dear, we both know that the stuff made here is far better, at the moment," she noted wryly. "And even if you do intend to swallow up those markets, they aren't yours just yet, and I'm afraid the US government isn't really the sort to wait for the distant future to happen."

Another fair point, but Joshua couldn't let this one go so easily. There was a timetable and a plan set up for dealing with Germany and Russia. American interference of this kind could throw their plans out the window and precipitate a conflict no one in the North was ready for.

"Unless, say, the Northern government decided to invest in some of your resurgent tech companies?" Joshua proposed cautiously, prompting the Ambassador's eyes to narrow in interest. "With the return of technology, I'm sure it's in your best interests that the _best _possible ally decide that investments in American companies are a solid choice."

"In exchange for...?"

"I'd love to say stop trading with the Russians and Germans, but we both know you won't," Warwick noted astutely. "So instead, restrict their access to FCE tech."

"On what possible grounds?" the woman asked, amused by this line of negotiation.

Joshua shrugged. "Make something up," he advised. "Call it industrial shortages, or government requisition needs for your war."

"No one with any brains would buy that," she noted rightly.

"They don't have to. They just have to accept it."

"A _fait accompli_."

Warwick nodded. "Precisely."

His host eyed him like a piece of meat for a moment. "You realize this will strain relations between my country and theirs?"

"Even if it does, so what?" Joshua asked. "What are they providing you that the ETO doesn't produce faster and more efficiently? And if they declare war, so what? I'd love to see the Germans and Russians invade another continent with a functional navy they don't have."

The younger woman smiled at him toothily again. "Always so vicious, you Northerners," she mused, shifting her legs with practised sensuality — which, thankfully, Warwick had long since learned to ignore. Nothing ended a politician's career quite so quickly as an affair. And between foreign officials? He'd be tried under the Espionage and Treason Act!

"The time for silk gloves is over, my dear Jane," he told her firmly. "We appreciate the investments your people have made in our companies, and we shall endeavour to reciprocate to ensure your victory against Mexico," he said nothing of the militarization of the mages there. Not only would it be hypocritical, but she'd also probably laugh in his face if he tried to get her government to back down. "We are, after all, allies, are we not?" he asked as he extended a hand.

The woman looked at the offered hand for a moment before slowly taking a more appropriate seated position and extending her own hand, clasping his with her long, graceful fingers. She was incredibly smooth to the touch, in Warwick's opinion, as compared to his own rugged, calloused hands.

"We are, Minister," she confirmed with a smile. "Allies."

* * *

_**Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, December 20, 2017...**_

"Concentrate, love."

Katerina narrowed her eyes even more as she kept her hand extended towards a small, wooden toy, set a few meters away from her. "I can't, papa!" she insisted.

Harry placed a hand on his daughter's head in a gesture of comfort. "Yes you can, my little princess," he encouraged her. "You have a gift for this, even larger than mine."

Despite the encouraging words, Harry could see some rather strong doubts forming within his daughter's mind. Even so, he could not desist. Katerina had performed her first bouts of accidental magic recently, a full two years before the norm. Even he, with his powers — which were widely considered prodigious, despite his own humility — had not manifested his magic until he was approximately 7 years of age.

And here was his daughter, at age 5, performing accidental magic already.

The first sign of it had been relatively subtle. Katerina had been trying to reach for a jar of cookies in the royal kitchens — where she loved playing with the staffers' own children — but had been unable to due to said jar having been deliberately put out of reach for children.

When a kitchen help came back later, Katerina was happily munching on a cookie, the jar, intact, beside her. No one took credit in giving the jar to the Royal Princess, nor did she implicate anyone. Either way, it was soon forgotten.

However, a more pertinent incident occurred around Katerina's birthday. She'd been out in the gardens, playing gleefully with her friends, when she'd tripped and scraped her knee. Despite sniffling and holding onto her wounded knee pitifully, by the time Ceecee had arrived to heal the wound, it was already gone. Seconds later, the Princess was back in action, running wildly about.

That was when Harry had become suspicious.

His suspicions were later confirmed when he and Elicia had walked in on Katerina happily levitating several picture books around her as she lay on the ground, as a sort of makeshift crib mobile. When Elicia had gasped, Katerina had jumped in surprise and the books fallen to the floor. When asked, she'd said the pictures were pretty and she liked looking at them.

The news spread like wildfire. The Royal Princess, the future Queen of the Northern Sun and its territories, was magical.

Not even a day had passed after the official announcement and virtually every mage, Military or civilian, had offered their services as a tutor. Ceecee herself had recused herself initially, until Elicia assured her that she trusted the former Death Eater enough to teach her child to use her magic wisely.

Harry, however, refused all offers.

His daughter would learn from him — that was something he had decided long ago, in the event that any child of his turned out to have magical powers. While he respected many of those who offered to teach his daughter, he also knew that the foremost expert in wandless magic right now was himself.

He put his hands on his daughter's shoulders, squeezing them softly to show his support. He knew that Elicia was watching from her seat, looking torn between being a proud mother and anxious that her daughter had inherited these dangerous powers.

"Don't force it out," he coached his daughter gently. "Magic doesn't work like that. Close your eyes, love."

Katerina gave a small grumble of childish impatience, but complied, her arm still stretched out. Harry grinned at his wife before returning his attention to his daughter.

"That's good. Like that. Now, clear your mind. Don't think of anything other than the sound of my voice. Can you do that, honey?"

"Mm!" Katerina hummed in assent. Harry felt like his fatherly pride would cause his heart to explode. His daughter might've been rather carefree as a rule, but she also seemed to know when it was time to get serious. Maybe as a result of watching her parents be much the same?

"Good. Keep listening to me, and only me...nothing else matters. Nothing else is there. Now, when I stop talking, keep thinking of nothing. Nothing exists, nothing is there...and then _want_, as hard as you can, for the power to change that."

Katerina's soft breath was all that answered him as the Princess did as her father instructed, her breathing slow and steady, much as he'd taught her ever since he'd begun his lessons with her. Then, without warning, she flinched slightly, but was held in place by her father.

"Did you feel it, love?" Harry asked her calmly, knowing exactly what she'd felt.

Katerina's eyes fluttered open, surprise registering all over her face. "What _was_ that, papa?" she asked him as she bent her head backwards to look up at him. He smiled down at his only child.

"That was your magic, sweetheart." he told her. "It's always been there, part of you, _waiting_ for you to be able to use it."

The look of wonder on Katerina's face was enough to melt his heart, but he stayed the course, returning his gaze to the small box on the end table. "Now, try again. This time, think back on how that power felt. Call on it again, and move the box."

Katerina looked at the box with obvious uncertainty, but then pursed her lips and nodded as firmly as she could, prompting a bitten-back snort from Harry. His daughter had _definitely_ been trying to emulate her parents a little too much.

Again, Katerina's little arm went up, her hand stretched out, clawed as though she was grasping at the box. Unnecessary, really, but he supposed it helped her visualize what she wanted her magic to do. For him, it was as easy as a nudge of a finger, or a simple thought.

He watched her scrunch her face, her eyes narrowed in ferocious concentration. He could see beads of sweat forming on her brow, and she was making small sounds of exertion as she desperately tried to mould her magic.

When the box didn't move an inch, he wasn't surprised. At her age, he would've had enormous problems, too. Even so, it served as a good starting point. At least now she could recognize that she _had_ power. At least now she understood what it was she was using.

He patted her on the shoulders comfortingly. "Don't worry, sweetheart. It took me many years before I could move a box." he told her when she looked up at him again, looking extremely disappointed with herself.

"Not a bad girl?" she asked hopefully. Harry laughed and patted her on the head, prompting a somewhat disgruntled grunt from his daughter.

"Not a bad girl at all," he assured her before pushing her towards the door. "Now then, I'm sure Ceecee is ready to take you to the park. How about you get ready?" he suggested.

With a delighted squeal, the Princess scampered off to the door. Before reaching it, though, she briefly stopped, to both her parents' interest, and looked back at the box for a moment. Then, raising her hand, she tried to move it again, but soon gave up and pouted, annoyed at being outdone by a toy. WIthout another word, she quickly ran out of the room, her training soon forgotten.

Once she was out of sight, Harry burst out laughing, amused at his daughter's antics. She had so much of her mother in her! That disgruntled pout at being outperformed was _all_ Elicia. His wife, for her part, giggled as she made the same connections, although she insisted Katerina had more of her father's reckless, adventurous spirit.

It was a source of constant, friendly banter between the two.

"I'm surprised you're not more disappointed with the results," Elicia noted after both calmed down and Harry joined her on the couch, soon plopping his head down onto her thighs. She smiled down at him as he closed his eyes, looking quite serene for a man who, until very recently, had been in the middle of one warzone after another.

"Why?" he asked, amused.

"She didn't move the box."

Harry snorted. "I couldn't move a _feather_ until I was...what? Nineteen? If she'd moved that box, she'd have been the single greatest magical prodigy of our time," he pointed out, sighing in enjoyment as Elicia began running her fingers through his hair, her other hand keeping an open book on theoretical physics she was perusing. "Hell, she still could be. Way I hear it, Riddle was the only other known wandless mage of his time, even if he started using a wand when he entered Hogwarts. So she's got a few years to beat his record."

"Do you want her to?"

Harry shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not. If it makes her happy, sure. If not, no. I don't want Katie growing up with so much pressure that she bucks under it."

Elicia smiled down at him and leaned down to kiss him. "Good answer," she told him playfully as they parted lips.

Harry opened his eyes and grinned up at her. "What about you?" he then asked. "How do _you_ feel about our little, magical daughter?"

Elicia smiled at him, then glanced at the box. "I won't lie...I'm a little afraid," she told him honestly. "I don't want Katie to join the military, Harry. I don't want her to use her powers to take a life."

"I don't, either," he pointed out.

"But she might think you do," she retorted as she put down her book and gently lay a hand on his cheek. "Harry, you set the bar for her. While she grows up, all she's going to hear from her contemporaries is how amazing you are, and all the great things you've accomplished. You're a long shadow to overcome, love."

"You think she'll try to outdo me...because I'm so hard to live up to?" he asked, starting to frown a little. He hadn't considered that.

"What child of important people does not?" she asked rhetorically. "We cut a long shadow, love. She may feel pressured into outdoing both of us just to make her mark. It may not show right now, but it will definitely affect her."

Harry was silent, silently enjoying his wife's fingers running through his hair as he pondered on this. Objectively, he could see that she was right. Even as he insisted he was building a better world for his family, for his daughter, he was also setting the benchmark for achievement pretty damn high for her at the same time. When she came to power, she would constantly be haunted by his own achievements, and people would ask why she did not accomplish as much as he had.

That was worrisome.

If his daughter thought she had to match his achievements, then he could easily postulate that she would seek war with neighbouring countries. If his plan panned out, that would mean taking on the Middle East, or Africa.

Or worse, the United States.

"You're right," he spoke up, his mind still processing all the different scenarios he could envision for his daughter's rule, if she succumbed to an inferiority complex. "This is quite...disturbing."

Elicia sighed and smiled tolerantly at him. "Don't let it eat at you, love. Just be...kind," she advised him. "Show Katie that she should do what's right, not what's being expected of her." she continued, caressing his forehead. "You told me she would be powerful in magic, right?"

He nodded.

"Then teach her righteousness. Teach her justice. Show her the wisdom of a ruler who truly cares for his people. Of one who would defend them to the bitter end, but only ever fights for the greater good. She will then be everything we could every wish for," she assured her husband.

Harry closed his eyes and smiled. "Sometimes I think you should have been the one to lead this nation, love," he confided in her. "And then I am thankful that even if you're not, that I have you here at my side to help me."

Elicia bent down again and kissed him deeply. "Always," she promised him after they parted.

* * *

_**Undisclosed Location, Northern-Albion Border, January 16, 2018...**_

Josefina grumbled as she tried to find more warmth in her coat. Rather absent-mindedly, she'd forgotten her magically enhanced coat back at the SIS office, leaving her with a normal coat which apparently did little against the blistering cold of Scottish winter.

"I did warn you to double check," Wolfsbane noted, amused, as he, too, waited by their car while their military escorts waited for the Albion delegation to arrive. "You _could_ just wait inside."

"And you could charm my coat," she snapped back, a little irritated by the cold. "So what's your excuse?!"

Wolfsbane grinned. "Character building."

"Prat," Josefina grunted under her breath as she wished the winter winds would stop blowing for even just a single minute.

Both watched silently as the Northern soldiers stood on guard, their rifles perhaps a little dropped, but none of them showing even an inch of relaxation. If it came to it, Josefina knew the HAVOC-enhanced soldiers would put down any threat before she could even join in.

"You think she really managed to do it?" she asked as she looked towards the forest's edge, from where they expected the Albion delegation to walk out any minute now. "She could be bluffing, maybe hoping to extract some concessions in exchange for the package."

Wolfsbane shrugged as he lit up a cigarette and soon blew out smoke. "Who knows? If she tries to blackmail us, though, I can't imagine the Foreign Office will take that well. Nor would the eminent Field Marshal."

Josefina snorted. Speirs hated being blackmailed. More than that, he hated the very thought of it. He was rather honorable in that way, strangely enough. He might not have any qualms about using tricks, traps, and diversions, but the man hated blackmail. An odd, if somewhat lovable quirk.

"Say," she then said, remembering something. "Are you sure you should be here?" she asked Wolfsbane, looking him up and down. The man's scars were prominent on his face, and coupled with the sandy hair and clear, distinguishable features, being out in the open like this, at an SIS Black Ops rendition, was like screaming his identity to the world.

Wolfsbane snorted. "We have an agreement with Albion, remember?" he told her. "They blow our covers, Albion suffers."

He shifted his shoulders a bit, feeling a bit stiff. "Besides," he added, "I'm getting a little old. Thinking about retiring anyway."

Josefina didn't buy that one second. "It's the girl, isn't it?" she teased him with a knowing grin.

Wolfsbane didn't bother to answer, which just confirmed her guess. Grinning even wider, Josefina slugged him playfully in the shoulder.

"Look at you, all lovey dovey!" she teased. "So you actually met her?"

Wolfsbane shrugged. "Sort of," he said. "We exchanged fire during the Lisbon job. Nicked her in the shoulder, she gave me this," he motioned at a rather nasty scar that ran from the middle of his left cheek to his jawline. He then took a deep drag of his cigarette and blew out some smoke. "Said her names was Tonks..."

Josefina snorted. "Only you would fall for a girl who tried to kill you," she commented, amused.

"As opposed to you, who goes through one partner after another?" Wolfsbane noted idly as he took a deep drag, then let the cigarette drop to the ground, crushing it under his boot. "Anyway, time to get your game face on. They're here."

Josefina brought up a hand and squinted at the distant forest. She couldn't see anything. "You sure?"

Wolfsbane nodded, tapping the side of his nose. "We're downwind, remember? I can smell them," he told her before whistling at the soldiers. "Head's up, boys! Our guests are here!"

Instantly, the soldiers snapped to attention, their rifles at the ready as they waited a minute. Two. Three.

Josefina wondered if perhaps Wolfsbane had sniffed wrong.

And then, confirming her partner's announcement, people began emerging from the forest's edge, clad in those ridiculous robes that Albion mages enjoyed wearing, despite making all of them look like people out of a fairy tale.

Five, six...she counted eleven in total, with one of them being marched at the center of the group. Their target, no doubt. The person's head was covered in a black bag, which meant she'd have to confirm it was their target before taking custody of him...if it _was_ him.

Something then caught her eye. Pink hair amongst their target's escorts. From the way her colleague tensed up, she had a good guess.

"You could wait in the car," she offered as she waited for the delegation to reach the border line.

"Thanks, but no," Wolfsbane answered firmly.

Both spies watched as the delegation came closer, and closer, until they stood directly on their border line, ten meters away from the Northern lines. Both sides would cross into the no-man's-land in between and there transfer the prisoner.

"Game time," she mused as she stepped forward, leaving the car convoy behind, Wolfsbane by her side. Both spies betrayed no anxiety or tension as they made their way to the international border line, then crossed into the No-Man's-Land. None of their guards moved to accompany them, but Josefina didn't need them to.

At the mere distance of 10 meters, each HAVOC trooper would put a bullet between the eyes of the entire Albion delegation in record time.

"You're late," she greeted the delegation coldly as they approached within talking distance. Unlike the Northern spies, the Albion mages were all wearing heavier robes, couple with a parka hoodie that made Josefina resent them all the more. Once again, she cursed her forgetfulness.

"Your watch must be ahead," a female from within the group noted as she pushed her way to the front, drawing back her hood to reveal Ginny Weasley, who amazingly still managed to strike an attractive figure, despite her work. A few scars littered her face and neck, yet she still looked beautiful, even Josefina had to admit. "We're right on time."

The redhead's eyes then turned to Wolfsbane, prompting a smirk. "Lupin," she recognized him immediately, to her colleagues' surprise. "I had a feeling you were the infamous Wolfsbane...especially after what Tonks mentioned of your encounter in Lisbon."

Wolfsbane merely shrugged. "Even werewolves need a day job," he noted idly. "My condolences about Dumbledore, by the way."

"Why? He was old. Everyone knew it was his time." Ginny snorted in amusement before switching back to Josefina. "As for you, I see age has been good to you, Miss Nightshade."

It surprised exactly no one that Ginny knew exactly who both Josefina and Wolfsbane really were. Harry had warned them time and time again that Ginny Weasley was a highly dangerous individual, possibly single-handedly responsible for committing or planning those acts that allowed Albion to continue existing as an independent nation. Who exactly she worked for, even the SIS had no idea, but her competence was _never_ in question.

Heck, Josefina might actively dislike the woman, but she also respected her. If anyone in this delegation of hers could go toe to toe with a HAVOC soldier, it was her.

"Anyway," Ginny ignored Josefina's lack of response and thumbed back towards the hooded individual. "There he is. Augustus Rookwood, as your boss asked. Took a while to track him down, a bit more to capture him, but he's all yours." she said as she motioned for Rookwood's guards to bring him up.

Josefina and Wolfsbane watched impassively as the hooded figure was shoved to the front, ending up on his knees before the two Northern spies. She exchanged a glance with Wolfsbane and, with one firm tug, he whipped off the man's hood.

There he was. Augustus Rookwood, as Ginny had promised.

"Rookwood," Josefina practically sang with vindictive pleasure, thoroughly enjoying the man's look of utter terror as he saw Wolfsbane and her for the first time. "It's _so_ nice to finally meet you face to face," she greeted him dangerously.

"P-Please," he tried to protest, but was quickly hooded again by Wolfsbane once Josefina nodded at him. His words were suddenly cut off, indicating that the hood had been charmed to be soundproof.

Ginny shrugged when Josefina shot her a curious look. "He wouldn't stop pleading for his life," the redhead explained. "It got annoying."

Josefina nodded at the explanation then glanced at her colleague. "Time to go, then," she declared before giving Ginny a perfunctory nod. "The SIS appreciates your collaboration on this."

Ginny smirked. "I doubt that," she mused. "Before you go, though, I do have another bit of information you might be interested in," she mentioned coyly.

Josefina and Wolfsbane stopped in their tracks, still holding Rookwood by the arms. Josefina turned around, curious. "Oh?"

Ginny eyed Wolfsbane for a moment before looking over her shoulder at her colleagues. "Tonks, front and center," she ordered calmly. Without much fanfare, the sole person within the group to have marched with her hood down and a bright shock of pink hair for the world to see, pushed her way to Ginny's side, eyeing down Wolfsbane. When Ginny extended a waiting hand at her, the woman promptly deposited a small box onto it, which Ginny tossed over to Josefina.

Catching it easily, Josefina inspected the small box and noted it seemed to be firmly clasped shut. "What is it?" she asked suspiciously as she continued inspecting it.

"A gift, from me to your boss," Ginny answered simply. "It has to do with a mutual acquaintance of both of us, who's been a pain in our arses for too long."

Josefina narrowed her eyes at Ginny. "What do you want in return?" she asked, suspicious. With good reason, too. Even if Albion was assisting the SIS with this extraordinary rendition, there was no love between the two. It was common knowledge that the SIS had the destruction of Albion high on their to-do list, while Albion constantly sought to undermine the Northern Sun's expansion into Europe.

Ginny nodded at the box. "This one's free of charge," she stated simply. "But if your King wants our help in dealing with the rest, that may change."

Josefina eyed Ginny for a moment, then the box, then glanced at Wolfsbane, who'd been having a silent stare-down with the pink-haired woman called Tonks. Shrugging, Josefina put the box in her coat pocket and grabbed Rookwood's arm again. "We'll let you know what we decide," she told Ginny simply before giving another nod and, tugging at Rookwood's arm, led her small group back to the Northern border.

* * *

_**SIS Headquarters, Manchester, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, January 20, 2017...**_

"You're certain this is _exactly_ what she gave you?"

Josefina and Wolfsbane nodded in tandem at the Duchess of Oxford's question, prompting a pained look in Lily Potter's otherwise beautiful features. Standing next to her seated form was her husband, the Duke of Oxford, who also seemed a bit pale. Only their children remained calm as they observed the holographic representation of what seemed to be a ring.

"It's a Horcrux," Xeno announced with a self-satisfied nod as he sat opposite his King. "We've had every magical scholar, every database examine it. There's no doubt about it."

"A Horcrux," Lily repeated, feeling a little sick. "Of all the dark magics..."

"This changes nothing," William noted calmly as he observed the rotating image of the ring. "We've all theorized for years now that Riddle is still alive. And the chatter we've been hearing had confirmed it, too. All this does is provide an explanation for his survival."

Isabella nodded in agreement, threatening to ruin her stylishly done hairdo. She'd been pulled from a rather enjoyable charity function, where she'd been attending as the Prince of Asturias' date, into this emergency meeting of the Potter Family. "And even if he's still alive, can't we just make him go away like you did last time?" she asked her parents.

James shrugged. "It's...complicated," he told his daughter. "Your mother and I got lucky, that's all. If Riddle has Horcruxes, that just means we'll be postponing his next resurgence," he pointed out.

"Any word on how many of these things exist?" Harry asked Xeno.

His Director of the SIS nodded. "Weasley left a note, along with the ring," he informed the group as he tapped a few keys and brought up an image of the note. "There appears to be six more."

"Can you find them?" William pressed, leaning forward.

Xeno nodded. "We could, in time," he qualified his answer before glancing over at his agents. "However, it would be far more expedient to take up Miss Weasley's offer," he pointed out, looking a little disgruntled by his own assertion. He really didn't like having to admit that his agency was less efficient than another one.

"She insinuated payment, didn't she?" Harry asked, prompting a confirming nod from Josefina. "Of course she did. William?" he asked his brother.

The second Potter child closed his eyes for a moment as he thought things through. When he opened them again, he had an answer ready. "The most likely scenario is that she will ask for some defectors. Possibly Snape," he theorized.

"Out of the question," James quickly said, beating his wife to the punch, as she looked about ready to jump to her feet. His words, however, did serve to surprise Wolfsbane, his wife, and Xeno.

Harry, however, was intrigued. "He's a low-level researcher in the pharmaceutics division of the Ministry of Science and Technology, right?" he asked William, who nodded. Turning back to his father, Harry asked, a little curious, "Why defend him so avidly, dad?"

Lily grasped her husband's hand and looked up at him pleadingly. "James..."

James fixed his gaze on the table, however. "He's...an old schoolmate of ours," he explained. "I must confess we were...never on the best of terms."

"So?" Isabella asked, also curious for more dirt into her parents' childhood days. Both had been notoriously tight lipped about the details of their childhood, especially once Harry had left for Liverpool College. Now seemed a great time to go for broke.

"_Particularly_ when it came to your mother," James added a little reluctantly, while Lily blushed. It took less than a second for _everyone_ to understand his meaning.

Isabella grinned, completely sidelining the gravity of the meeting. "Mum! Dad had a rival in love?!"

Harry equally seemed amused, while William just stared blankly at his parents.

"I fail to see why a love rival would demand such a defense, father," William noted neutrally, not in the least caring to hear more details of his parents' childhood, or their love lives. _Especially_ not their love lives.

"It wasn't an amicable rivalry," James said. He ignored Wolfsbane's uncharacteristic snort. "It may have devolved into rather...humiliating and bullying actions."

"And you feel...guilt?" William asked for confirmation.

James nodded. "I do."

"We _both_ do," Lily added, backing up her husband. "I fear my choosing your father over him may have...pushed him into the arms of the Death Eaters, back in the day."

"He made a stupid mistake!" James insisted once he saw his children sucking in a deep breath. "He was emotional, and angry, and Riddle was offering everything he wanted. But he's paid for it, dearly," he added. "He shouldn't be sent back to Albion, where we _know_ Scrimgeour and Weasley will see him hung!"

Harry and his siblings were silent as they processed that bit of information. Isabella had to admit that she had perhaps romanticized the idea of her mother being in the middle of a love triangle. Learning that something as innocuous as her mother choosing her father may have made a man become something as despicable as a Death Eater was...troubling.

William, for his part, was having trouble reconciling his father's emotion-based reasoning with reality. The truth was, it was better for the whole nation if Riddle was terminated as quickly as possible, and if Snape's life was to be the sacrifice, he really couldn't see a logical, reasonable explanation why that shouldn't happen.

Harry, however, was completely silent on the matter, processing his parents' plea and the reality before him. While Riddle was a constant annoyance to the Northern Sun, and a potential threat in the future, the truth was that he had little hurry in seeing the man killed. His group had been dismantled and annihilated. Thousands of graves in the Northern Sun's northern territories paid grave testament to that.

On the other hand, Riddle had attacked his family. _His_ family. He had been beaten back, sure, but the offense still stood. Not to mention that it had been his lackey who'd helped launch an attack on his wife and daughter. For that, heads still needed to keep rolling.

However, did exacting his revenge mean he was willing to sacrifice people who came to him to _escape_ that life? He pondered on that. If Hughes had been present at this meeting, he had no doubts the wily advisor would've pushed for him to turn over every refugee, if necessary, as long as they could silence Riddle and pin every crime the Northern Sun ever committed on his corpse.

Elicia, however, would've slapped him for considering such a move. He'd made a reputation for the Sun as a haven for all those oppressed. Barges still arrived every day at their ports, full to the brim with refugees, who all sought a better life. Many of them had to be redirected to the Occupied French territories, in order to avoid significant overpopulation of the Isles. If he turned over even _one_ of them...it might set off a chain reaction.

"No trades," he declared simply. Isabella shot him a relieved look, matched by their parents, though William merely accepted his statement with a short nod. "Ask them for help, but make sure that we are _never_ trading our citizens, or would-be citizens, for favours," he ordered Xeno, who nodded easily, glad he hadn't been the one to make the call.

He looked at Wolfsbane, then. "You say Weasley and another woman there recognized you?" Harry asked his family's oldest operative. The man nodded, prompting a frown from the King. "Was that your intention?"

Wolfsbane shrugged. "Tonks and I had crossed paths before in Lisbon," he stated. "I figured I was outed to the rest of the mage community. I wasn't wrong."

Harry looked to Xeno, who remained calm and infuriatingly poker faced. "Your decision, Xeno," Harry stated as he pushed his chair out and stood. "Now, if that's all, I really need to get back to my wife and daughter," he said politely before walking out of the room, only stopping long enough to exchange cheek kisses with his mother and a firm hug with his father.

The room so emptied, bit by bit, until only the SIS agents and the Director were left. Turning to his two operatives, Xeno frowned.

"It was a good job acquiring Rookwood, and the ring," he noted, tapping a finger on the table a little impatiently. "But was it _really_ necessary to expose yourself like that, Wolfsbane?" he asked.

The SIS agent shrugged. "I'm getting slower," he informed his boss as he traced the scar on his cheek. "This ain't exactly an old man's game."

"You're younger than I am," Xeno pointed out.

"And you're not in the field anymore either," Wolfsbane riposted. "Besides, I think I can do more good teaching the young pups how to be better spies," he noted, eyeing Josefina. "I taught this little one a few decent tricks, and look how good _she_ is."

"_She_ is right _here_," Josefina snapped irritably. She really disliked being talked about in her presence, as though she wasn't around.

"Without you _or_ her in the field, however, we're down two of our best agents," Xeno pointed out, ignoring Josefina's indignant yelp at being ignored once again. "How do we fix _that_?"

Wolfsbane shrugged. "Madley, Dobbs, and Branstone seem to have a good head on their shoulders," he remarked. "Let me take them out on a tougher assignment, see if they've got the chops to replace Nightshade and Wolfsbane."

Josefina's eyes narrowed. "I don't like Madley. She's too chatty."

Wolfsbane snorted. "Compared to you, who isn't?"

Xeno sighed as Josefina tried to slug Wolfsbane in the arm. Outstanding spies both may have been, but they really tended towards the immature in these situations.

Well, better immature than uncaring, he supposed.

* * *

_**Dover, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, January 22, 2018...**_

The city of Dover had really changed, with the rise of the Northern Sun.

Once one of the busiest cities in the United Kingdom, the rising tensions with the rest of Europe, the Anglo-Spanish War, the anarchy, and the Civil War had all but ruined this once proud port.

Many of its shipping companies went broke as the Northern Sun relied on its Irish and trans-Atlantic trading routes, focusing much of its wealth on the western ports. Those that didn't, moved west. It wasn't long until the fishing industry was Dover's main source of income, and even that was constantly under threat during the conflicts.

The Franco-Northern War, however, was when things changed for the better.

Suddenly in need of a major port close to the front lines, the Northern Navy refitted many of the city's dried up docks and employed vast swathes of the unemployed to run them again. Military ships dominated the ports at first, naturally, but as the front lines moved further inland, supply ships, then private shipping corporations leased by the Ministry of Defence, began to populate the docks' once-abandoned warehouses, working overtime to ship the army's supplies.

When the airports reopened, some of their business was lost, sure, but not enough to break the city again, especially as the local government ensured that much of the regained wealth went into infrastructure and developing a service-based economy. Soon, they had an airport of their own. Perhaps not as big as Heathrow had once been, or as modern as Liverpool International Airport was, but good enough for some of that trans-Channel commerce to remain firmly wedged within the city's ailing coffers.

But the resentment remained.

For many, the victory of the Northern Sun over the Chiefs of Staff had resulted in an axis shift to the north, forcing away attention and wealth that they had once enjoyed for what used to be the more marginal areas of the country.

In these southern areas, some still remembered the lost United Kingdom fondly.

Michael Clarkson was one such man.

The son of a dockworker and a stay-at-home mom, he'd watched as his father's life-long career was brought to an abrupt end during the anarchy, made worse by the Civil War. His family supported the Northern cause back then. Why wouldn't they? The Chiefs were totalitarian, vicious. They pressed young men into military service to ostensibly keep at bay their foreign enemies, though it was readily apparent that the Northern Territories had soon grown to be their foremost foe, despite being fellow countrymen.

When the Northern forces entered Dover, Michael and his family had gone to the streets to celebrate and welcome their liberators. His mother had kissed many a soldier on the cheeks, while his father shared his precious stash of alcohol with them. He remembered vividly as one soldier patted him on the head as he'd marched past, having received from Michael a miniature Northern flag.

Victory turned sour, however.

Within months, it became obvious that the Northern Territories, as it was still known, would not relocated their seat of power to London. The axis of power shifted north, with Manchester, Liverpool, Leeds, Sheffield...all the great Northern cities earning the cut of the Treasury that had once been assigned to the southern regions.

Commerce rotted away. The Northern Sun's expansionism kept them firmly wedged in the Anglo-Spanish conflict. Their rivalry with France choked off trade with the mainland. During the Franco-German conflict, there was a moment of relief as many boat captains hazarded the war-torn coast to smuggle goods into occupied Germany.

But that war ended, and the German ports closed after the French victory.

Their trade was now cut off. Their livelihoods, gone.

His father turned to alcohol for solace. His mother, now forced to get a job to feed her family, went into manufacturing, alongside his father. She died a year later, overworked to the point of a stroke.

His father, wallowing in grief and impotent rage, turned to the bottle even more. Soon, he, too, was gone. Liver failure.

Michael Clarkson was now alone.

Forced to survive, he relied on government loans and the reconstruction projects of the Northern Sun to find employment. After a stint as a construction apprentice, he became a construction worker in his own right, using the meager funds he earned to pay for night school, where he focused on immigration law, dreaming of the day he could finally leave the Northern Sun for a better life elsewhere.

His efforts paid off, but not in the way he'd envisioned.

Graduating within the top 50 students of his graduating class, Michael was soon courted by Immigration Services. The onslaught of refugees from abroad seeking asylum had meant that immigration officers were in desperate need, and with his education in immigration law, he was a perfect candidate.

The pay was good, as was the perks. It was a no brainer.

But he never forgot his anger. The rage his father had felt as he slowly wilted away ate at Michael's heart.

At first, it was only an internalized anger, which he took out on the immigrants by being the toughest immigration officer in his division. Confusing this passive-aggressive behaviour for zeal, he was promoted to regional supervisor. The SIS thought him a patriot, and his background check went through without issue.

And then he met Kate.

A fellow supervisor, he and Kate had met at an annual meeting of supervisors, where they bonded quickly over their similar pasts. It wasn't until a few months into their friendship, however, that they discovered their mutual anger at the Sun.

It went downhill from there.

He met her friends, all southerners, who all welcomed him with open arms as he partook in their weekly bashing sessions against the Sun and all those who worshipped it as a bastion of peace and prosperity. Liars and sheep, he and his new friends called the average citizen and their "totalitarian" masters in Liverpool.

Time passed, and his new friends slowly radicalized him. He knew it was happening, of course. He wasn't so far gone, intellectually speaking, that he couldn't recognize what he was turning into.

He just didn't care.

The anger had driven him all these years. It had given him strength when he thought he was about to give up. Remembering his mother, his father, was all the drive he needed.

His friends soon grew in number, as Kate's friends began to introduce him to newer people, each one steadily more radical than the previous one. Eventually, his discussions weren't about the sheep anymore. They weren't about how much the government lied.

They were about bringing about change. About showing the fat pigs the truth of their actions.

About revolution.

The moment he knew he was inexorably in, however, was when he met the man he now called Mentor.

He recalled it well. He had only heard of this great mentor by way of allusions from his new friends. They called him a visionary, a man who would bring about true change to the world. A man who wouldn't abandon his followers when victory was at hand. A man who would elevate them to his side when the throne was his.

And then, one day, Henry, the leader of the group of friends, invited him on a trip to Germany, as part of Michael's mandated vacations. Together, they'd flown to Frankfurt, where they then drove all the way to a particular mansion, on the outskirts of a particular hamlet. Overlooking the hamlet, the great house stood eminent over all, controlling the landscape with its beauty and majesty.

He'd doubted that the King of the Northern Sun possessed anything like it.

His conversation with the Mentor had been illuminating. Darkly charismatic, the man had silkily weaved arguments that made Michael all the angrier with the Northern Sun. His past was skillfully used against him, driving Michael's anger into full blown hate. By the time he'd left, he no longer wanted to disparage or protest the Northern Sun — he wanted to destroy it.

He was told not to act rashly, however. He was told to go back to work, and to avoid any further contact with Kate's friends, now his as well. He was told to act normally, or else the SIS might nip their movement in the bud.

All he had to do was to get himself transferred to Dover.

He complied.

Months later, he used his praised run as Regional Supervisor to request a transfer to Dover, to coincide with the end of the Northern Sun's campaign in France. Thousands would likely migrate from the continent, and Dover was already recovering from decades of slump.

Too little, too late, for Michael.

Then, a few days ago, he was informed that the time for him to act had come. The Mentor had been diligently preparing all these years. He had accumulated wealth, followers, and supplies for their great undertaking.

All he had to do was clear the _S.S. Jaeger _for unloading.

He did so gladly. Personally taking control of the migratory procedures for the ship, which ostensibly carried refugees and their assorted possessions, he made sure the process was expedient and efficient. Considering this had been an assignment from the Mentor himself, he was not at all surprised to learn that the captain had everything _perfectly_ in order, which was a rarity in itself. Fortunately, that just meant that the SIS would never be the wiser.

As the procedures went underway to unload the ship's cargo, he was invited, almost insistently, by the captain to come aboard, supposedly for a quick drink. What he found in the captain's cabin, however, was enough to bring him to his knees, his clipboard and pen fallen to the wayside as he rendered homage to the man waiting for him.

"You have done well, Michael," the man greeted him, his voice no longer silky, but firm, pleased, and welcoming — all at the same time. "You have protected the undertaking, and you have protected me, from the prying eyes of the usurper King's watchdogs."

"I am only ashamed I could not do more, Mentor," Michael stated humbly.

"You have done enough," the Mentor assured him as he stood from the captain's comfortable-looking chair and walked over, raising Michael by the arms onto his feet. "You have done all I have asked."

"It is time, then?" Michael asked, excitement barely suppressed. The Mentor gave a throaty chuckle before patting Michael on the cheek, as though he was still a young boy.

"It is," the man assured him before turning back to the chair and sitting down again. "As we speak, our great undertaking has already begun," he stated confidently. "Thousands of likeminded individuals, all victims of the Sun's perfidy, have begun to assemble. We will strike everywhere, so they may catch us nowhere," he said with a dangerous smile. "And then, when Liverpool burns, we will take the country for our own, and the wronged will be the ones to crack the whip."

Michael nodded, his face reflecting only awe and admiration. "As you say, Mentor."

The Mentor smiled at him, his handsome features bearing the expression well. He then switched attention to the aged captain, who was silently listening in by the doorway. "Captain Kleindl, I thank you for your service to our cause. Your government's aid in bringing us this far has been most appreciated."

The ship captain gave a perfunctory nod. "Of course. The Sun grows more dangerous by the day, _herr_ Mentor," he stated gruffly. "The_Militärischer Abschirmdienst_ is more than glad to help you in your endeavour in this case."

The Mentor smiled as the captain then excused himself and left, leaving Michael all the more awed at the allies the Mentor had been able to acquire. Even the Germans were getting involved! How could they possibly fail now!

The Mentor, for his part, smiled at Michael's reaction. It was all too familiar, these days. Despite the great leaps the Northern Sun had achieved in rebuilding Western civilization, it had nonetheless left many thousands of people behind. Angry people.

Who now wanted revenge.

And he, Tom Marvolo Riddle, was more than glad to deliver.

* * *

_**Post-AN: **Let me just say, "London Calling," the song from Star Trek: Into Darkness? Excellent song to listen to while reading that last part. Really got my creative juices running. As always, please review!_


	34. Chapter XXXIV: Darkness Rising

_**AN: **Yay! New Chapter! Huzzah! Thanks again to Ray for going through this chapter before I post it!_

_By the by, with regards to updates and such, you can now follow my progress regarding each chapter via my twitter account, given at the bottom of my profile page. If you're feeling lazy, it's marquis_black._

_Also, Happy Fathers' Day! _

_Cheers,_

_MB_

* * *

_**Oxford, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, January 30, 2018...**_

The time had come.

After so many years, Henry Marshall had finally received the call. All those years of hard work, of busting his ass to move up the ranks...all finally rewarded, as it was his rightful due.

He was _finally_ promoted to Assistant Manager at his bank's local branch!

He whistled a happy tune as he got up from bed, careful not to wake his darling wife, Esther, and moved to the bathroom for a quick wash. It was still early, about an hour and a half before he was actually expected at the bank. Who cared, though? He was now a step away from being General Manager!

He slowed his brushing, frowning. He couldn't get ahead of himself. Getting to Assistant Manager was already quite the achievement, and it came with its own excellent payday. He owed his new position to the General Manager, too, so he supposed he ought to show some loyalty, out of gratitude.

Shrugging, he resumed his hygienic routine. He was sure Guy knew he had his eyes set on the job. Why else would he have been promoted? Everyone _knew_ he was an ambitious sod!

The thought warmed him. Perhaps he was being groomed to be the next General Manager? A heartening thought!

Coming out of the bathroom, he smiled at his wife, who still slept, worn out by last night's celebrations. Walking over to their closet, he pulled out his finest shirt and suit, eager to make an excellent first impression on his first day as second in command.

When he was done, he kept humming his song as he went into the kitchen of his affordable, mass-constructed home, courtesy of the Northern Sun's reconstruction projects. It might not have won any prizes for aesthetics, but as far as Henry was concerned, it was affordable, sturdy, and housed his family.

Besides, if he wanted a bigger home, his newest promotion certainly put him on the right path towards that goal.

Within moments, he had a few eggs on the pan, bread in the toaster, and was currently waiting by the stove, reading the daily newspaper. A mite old school, true, but unlike television and the internet, both of which had nearly crashed and burned during the Civil War and the subsequent power outages, the newspaper had stayed strong — or, at least, that was _his_ opinion. He knew of legions of people who vehemently disagreed with him.

Including his two kids, both of whom had embraced the Northern Sun's technological revolution with open arms.

Not that he discouraged them, of course. One didn't become Assistant Manager by being stuck in the past. That he liked a few things to remain analog was just personal preference, though he could see that for most of the younger generations, it was all about the digital.

Thus why he resolved to _finally_ get his daughters the new computer they've been asking. With his promotion bonus, he could comfortably do so while storing the rest for their college fund. Which, thankfully, didn't need to be quite as large as it used to be, in his youth. He remembered when you had to practically sell your soul for the loans you needed to attend college. Nowadays, the Northern Sun's scholarship programs allowed for a wider variety of applicants, and if you swore to work for the government for at least four years, then they would pay a decent chunk of your tuition, provided you kept your grades above a certain threshold.

Man, where had the Sun been during _his_ formative years?

"Mmmm," he heard a feminine purr from behind, just as he felt his wife's arms hug him at the waist. "Smells good."

"Morning, dear," he said with a happy grin, still on cloud nine from his promotion. "Why don't you take a seat? Breakfast will be done in a bit."

She chuckled and relented, walking over to their kitchen table and sitting down, smiling as she watched him fold the newspaper and put it away as he returned to the scrambled eggs and toast. "Still happy from the promotion, I see," she noted amusedly.

"Shouldn't I be?" he asked with a grin as he scooped up the food and placed it on four plates. "Can you get Annie and Allie? Don't want their food to get cold." he noted as he got out the placemats and cutlery.

Esther laughed as she nodded and got up, planting a kiss on his cheek. "Of course," she agreed, before walking towards their twin daughters' room and with a gentle knock, walked in, out of sight.

Henry smiled as he heard his wife wake up the girls, both fourteen, headstrong, and lively as a cricket. While he waited for them, he set the table, taking out the orange juice from the icebox and setting in in the middle of the table. As he heard both girls whine, he grinned as he imagined his wife chiding them amusedly for having stayed up so late, probably chatting with their friends via the computer.

He examined the table then, hands on his waist akimbo, and wondered if he was missing anything. As he stopped his humming, he realized what it was — the radio. He loved music, and he knew it drove his daughters crazy when he put on some of the classics, like Queen or the Beatles — they were much more into what they called "electronica."

Bizarre sounds, he called it.

Breakfast was a good time for the Marshalls, as he'd hoped. Even though both girls whined at being made to get up early — they did have school, after all — and at his taste of music, laughter and smiles dominated the event. He learned that Annie was sweet on a mage boy — making him throw out a lame joke about polishing his gun — and that Allie was worried about her upcoming Biology exam. Despite his and his wife's best attempts at soothing the girl's nerves, his daughter seemed insistent on fretting, so they gave it up as a bad job and assured her they trusted her to do her best, no matter the results.

As breakfast wrapped up, he took the effort to wipe his face with his napkin, to make sure he was absolutely presentable for his first day as Assistant Manager. His wife, amused by his own fretting, helped him straighten his tie and assured him he looked extraordinarily handsome. A white lie, as he knew he was rather average, but a pleasant one.

After getting her assurances that she'd be able to drop the girls off at school without being late to her own work as another school's counselor, he exchanged kisses with her before kissing both his — protesting — daughters on the forehead.

"I'll be back around five," he assured his wife as she handed him his coat. It _was_ still winter, after all.

She smiled at him. "I can't wait."

Waving goodbye to his daughters, he was soon out the door, headed towards the bus stop, leaving their sole car to his wife. Cars were too expensive in this day and age. While efforts had been made to convert automobiles to handle FCE consumption, many of those cars remained prohibitively costly, making many people like him opt for the workable mass transportation system. Regrettably, there were no subway stops in the suburbs, or else he'd have chosen that, rather than the bus.

Still, the ride into the city proper was rather calming. No need to worry about traffic, no need to worry about passengers...just relax and wait. Discreetly, he pulled out a small device that his coworkers had gifted him, telling him it played music stored in a miniature hard drive. An mp3 player, they'd called it.

More bizarre technology, to him, though he'd gifted and seen his daughters use them since they'd first come out, nearly eight years ago. It'd been rather amusing seeing his twin daughters dancing (horribly) about at age 6, enthralled by the music coming out of a small device.

Even so, he was willing to make an exception to his dislike of new devices in this one case. His coworkers knew he loved music, and had made sure to preload it with his favourite songs. Plugging in his earphones and leaning back, he smiled as David Bowie's _Space Oddity_ soon filled his ears.

Idly, he let his gaze wander over to the other passengers. Almost all of them were in suits, or uniforms, as was expected of a bus route that mainly served to bring the suburban population into the urban areas. Midway back, however, he noticed two men in grey coats. Northern Police, Mage Division.

A little odd, he had to admit. Mages in the police could, as far as he knew, move about without being restrained by the wards that kept the country safe from random, malicious Apparation and Portkeys.

Perhaps they were feeling tired?

He shrugged. It had nothing to do with him. Slowly, his gaze returned to the front of the bus, where he kept a watchful eye for his stop.

Soon enough, suburbia began to melt away as the first buildings began showing up. Then, once the first high-rise passed by, he knew he was in the city proper.

Once a university city, Oxford had been forced to reinvent itself into a commercial power after much of the ancient Oxford University grounds had been devastated during the Civil War. Little of the original campus had been left standing, and it had been a minor miracle that the academics there had been able to save most of the research and invaluable documents and artifacts stored there. Even so, much had been lost to the war — a grave loss to academia, to be sure.

About ten minutes later, he stood up as he saw they were reaching his stop. The rebuilt Christ Church loomed in the distance, another victim of the war. Much of its original structure remained, thankfully, but the spire had to be practically rebuilt from scratch after an errant shell had gutted it.

He got off soon after, along with maybe six others. The street was bustling, of course, despite the chilly weather. Pulling his coat closer to his body, he made his way towards his bank branch, the thought of his new job warming him somewhat.

When he got there, seeing the stone steps leading up to the building, he smiled as he saw the bank's logo on a nearby statue of a roaring lion.

The Royal Bank of the Northern Sun — Oxford Branch.

All around him, early customers were already milling into the bank, carrying on as usual. He took his time going up the steps, relishing every single one. It was like walking up to a temple, to him, especially now that he was a position away from managing one. _We Are the Champions_ came on, causing him to grin at how appropriate the song was to his situation.

He stopped just before the final step, looking up at the marble columns of the bank's front entrance, carved in as classical a fashion as possible, designed to elicit the spirit of ancient glory of the Greeks and Romans.

It was a good day.

That was Henry Marshall's last thought as he took his final step up the stairs, only to be greeted by a sudden blast of hot air, fire, and shrapnel as the Royal Bank of the Northern Sun, Oxford Branch, was gutted whole.

* * *

"My god..."

Sirius swore softly as he looked around him at the devastation. Police barriers had been set up, Emergency Response Mages were on the scene, either clearing debris or taking away casualties of the bombing. Given the breadth of the attack, even conventional ambulances had to be dispatched, to deal with the less critically injured.

Police and firemen scrambled about, ignoring even the Prime Minister of the Northern Sun as they tried to keep order or put the fires out, respectively. Even then, Sirius felt sick as he walked the scene of devastation.

The Oxford Event, as his office had called it the moment the attack happened, had taken everyone off guard. As far as targets went, Oxford wasn't considered a priority _at all_, and yet, it seemed, that was exactly why the bomber, or bombers, had chosen it.

The reason they believed it to be a political statement, in turn, was because of the target. The Royal Bank of the Northern Sun's local branch. It easily dwarfed the other local government institutions in both size and importance. It had been the driving force of local reconstruction, and many of its most important personnel were local leaders. A target-rich environment, if one wanted to cripple the city in some way.

Naturally, he had insisted on visiting the site immediately, over the objections of the SIS, Harry, and the rest of his Cabinet.

He was the Prime Minister of the Northern Sun. His duty was to these people. To serve and protect them from things like this.

And he had failed.

How many orphans...how many widows...how many fatherless or motherless families had been left by this attack?

He already knew the initial tally. 100 dead in the bank proper, mostly customers and employees of the bank. Another dozen or so from neighbouring buildings affected by the blast. Fifty or so more who'd simply been walking by and been hit by the shrapnel.

Nearly 200 dead. 200 lives, lost, and that number was expected to rise.

And no one to blame.

He was idly aware of his bodyguards keeping people at bay as he walked through the ruined street, ignoring the press' calls for a comment. What could one possibly say in times like this? He watched two paramedics carry a black bag between them, undoubtedly taking the remains of another victim away for identification and processing.

Sirius felt his throat clench as he bit back an angry yell of impotent, grieving rage.

He stepped over a piece of the bank's once-finely crafted columns, towards the makeshift centre of the rescue operations. He knew the local police chief and head of the firefighters would be there, along with a medical liaison, and probably someone from the SIS. That's where he needed to be. He needed to be here, helping in facilitating the rescue operations.

What use would he be in Liverpool, far away from the catastrophe? Was he supposed to remain so distant to be able to keep his cool? If so, he was revolted by the idea.

He knew many of his colleagues in government liked to imagine a glass wall between them and the people, but Sirius, in a rather radical shift from his youthful days, had taken to his responsibility fiercely. He truly believed he was in his place to work for the people, not to enrich himself or abuse his power for his own ends. He shared in Harry's vision of a unified Europe not as a statement of power, but as a promise of a better world.

Years in prison had taught him of the worst in people. His freedom taught him to ensure people would never have to suffer through the same.

"Gentlemen," he greeted the gathered heads of the response teams on-site as he neared them. All of them snapped to attention at his presence and began to throw effusive greetings at him, which he quickly dismissed with a wave of his hand. "We have little time, and much to do," he told them pointedly. "How may I help?" he asked bluntly.

The chiefs seemed confused over this act of direct, Prime Ministerial offer of help. Never before had something like this happened, and so they were unsure how to proceed.

Eventually, however, a brave firefighter stepped up and offered a handshake, which Sirius reciprocated gladly. "Thank you, sir," the man told him sincerely, his own eyes reflecting much of the grief Sirius had been feeling. "Right now, what we need is more hands on deck. There's just too much debris for the local Mages, and we might lose some of the folk trapped in there if we don't move quickly."

Sirius nodded. Low-priority cities like Oxford typically had no more than a dozen Mages on hand, to be distributed between the medical, police, and fire-fighting branches. On the flip side, cities like Manchester or Liverpool had upwards of a hundred mages in their local civilian security services, _at least_.

"Done," he told him before turning to his aide, who seemed about ready to hurl from the blood and gore still scattered about. "Get to it. Inform Luna to tell the Ministry of Defence to send over rescue squads." he ordered sharply, successfully catching the young man's attention. "Immediately, Michaels."

"Y-Yes, Prime Minister!" the aide stuttered out as he fumbled with his phone.

"What else?" Sirius asked calmly, prompting the medical chief to raise his hand meekly. "Yes?"

"Err...well, we're running out of medical supplies, Prime Minister," the medical chief noted, more than a little embarrassed by the situation. "We could use more beds and medicine, even surgeons and nurses, really..."

"Done. Michaels, relay that, too."

"Y-Yes, Prime Minister!"

Sirius turned his gaze to the police chief, who shook his head.

"We're fine on our own front, Prime Minister," the man assured Sirius seriously before nodding to the firefighter and medical chiefs. "My friends here need your help more than we do."

Sirius nodded. He appreciated the man's desire to tough it out while the necessary help went to the firefighters and medical crews. Less shouting to deal with when he got back to Liverpool and the respective Ministries found out they'd have supplies and personnel conscripted.

"Very well," he declared as he swept his hand in a gesture of firmness. "Then let us get to work as best we can, gentlemen. We must save as many as we can, and we must find who committed this heinous crime."

None of his audience disagreed.

* * *

_**Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, February 12, 2018...**_

"Seven."

Practically the entire room flinched at Harry's solemn pronouncement.

"Seven attacks in less than two weeks," he reiterated, watching his cabinet and the members of the SIS present squirm under his unforgiving stare. "Over three hundred dead. Several government buildings destroyed, and the public cowering in terror."

He palmed his face then, trying greatly to reel in his temper. It would do no one any good for him to explode right now. He needed to keep calm and keep order. His Ministers had explanations to give, and he hoped, for their sakes, that they were _good_ ones.

"Can anyone tell me _why_ this is happening?" he asked tightly.

Silence permeated the room. Of course they didn't. How typical. Why did he even bother to have the SIS around?

"With all due respect, Your Majesty," Xeno spoke up then. Speak of the devil. "The nature of these attacks may be uncertain, but we do know _how_ they are happening."

Harry slid his hand down to cup the lower half of his face, glowering at Xeno. "Explain." he ordered curtly. He was in no mood for mind games at the moment. This hadn't been the first time the SIS had dropped the ball, and his people were starting to notice.

"Suicide attackers," Xeno stated bluntly, causing many a Minister to suck in air. "Specifically, we believe them to be sleeper agents."

Harry's glower turned into a fierce glare. "Traitors, you mean," he corrected Xeno irritably. "How did the SIS fail to notice their external affiliations?"

Xeno spread his hands apologetically, but his eyes showed calm confidence. No guilt was apparent there, which served to annoy Harry even further. "Regrettably, they made use of a particular loophole in our screening regulations," he explained. "In depth background checks are only necessary after a certain level, and these sleeper agents made sure to remain beneath that line. As such, we only looked at their criminal records and current affiliations. Neither check brought up any suggestions that they may have been compromised."

James nodded as he opened a file and held up a pair of photo stills of what appeared to be security feeds to his colleagues. "Bank teller," he shifted one for emphasis — showing the moment just before detonation at the Royal Northern Bank in Oxford — before pumping up the other one slightly — this one reflecting the moment of the attack on a meeting of military officials and defense contractors. "Corporate secretary."

Another photo came out. The explosion at the British Museum in London, fifty dead. "Museum guard."

"Waiter," the mass shooting at the Northern Veterans Annual Conference in Birmingham, twelve dead. "Housewife." The attack at Fort Wellington, Fifteen dead.

"We get it," Galloway grunted irritably as he shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with the topic of discussion. "Low level infiltrators."

James nodded at the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. "Exactly," he agreed before turning to meet his son's gaze. "People we would never look twice at. Strategically situated in places we would never question. Willing to kill and then kill themselves before being caught."

"The perfect infiltrators," Xeno summed up, glad to know at least one of his colleagues was backing him up. "They don't need access to higher tiers of security clearance, because they have ample targets to strike at from the beginning."

"A chilling thought," his colleague from the Ministry of Sport said with a shiver.

"Knowing how it's done is well and good," Burbage spoke up then, looking more than a little alarmed by this new information. "But what are we going to _do_ about it?" she pressed. "What if the next target's a hospital, or heaven forbid, a _school_?"

"Took the words right out of my mouth, Miss Burbage," Harry noted dryly as he leaned on one of his chair arms and stared down Xeno. "Well, Director?"

Xeno shifted in his seat for a moment, suddenly having the urge to just retire and let the younger generations deal with this. Laughable, to say the least, as neither Josefina nor Wolfsbane were in any condition to take over...yet. "The SIS has already issued orders to infiltrate all known underworld organizations and extract what information we can get our hands on," he briefed his colleagues. "In addition, every single A.I. in our possession has been retasked to go through the personnel files of each of our government institutions and affiliated events and perform a thorough background check."

"How long will that take?" asked Gupta, interested.

Xeno grimaced. "At least a year," he admitted.

Harry suddenly slammed his fist on the table, leaving a deep imprint in the wood thanks to his magically enhanced strength. "Unacceptable!" he snapped. "In a year, we will have lost _thousands_ to these maniacs!"

To Xeno's credit, he didn't cower from Harry's anger, but did flinch a tiny bit. It was hard not to, given what they knew of the King's power. "We _have_ requested for more A.I.s," he quickly stated. "However, we estimate that without _at least_ a hundred more, we will be unable to process everyone we need to in time...without _severely_ cutting into our other intelligence operations."

"And are they necessary?" growled Ragnok as he tapped his long fingernails together. "Does this not take priority?" The Goblin leader asked, rather irritated by these attacks. Fifteen of the casualties of these attacks had been Goblins, and his own people were starting to demand answers.

Xeno glowered at the Goblin. "They're the difference between seven attacks in two weeks, and another Manchester Event."

Shivers greeted that declaration. The Manchester Bombing of 2011 had been a harsh blow to the Northern Territories at the time. Only the invention of the FCE Power Plant had saved them from regressing back to pre-Industrial levels.

"There has to be _more_ that can be done!" Burbage insisted, prompting a shake of Xeno's head.

"We'd like to think so, but there isn't," he stated calmly. "If they were all mages, we could force them all to perform Unbreakable Vows, but unfortunately, many of these suicidal individuals are normal folk. Their devotion to their affiliation and this obvious recruitment of all sorts suggests a purely ideological bent to their cause. However, until we are able to discern what that ideology is, we will be reacting at a disadvantage."

"Furthermore," he added as he interlaced his fingers, "the seemingly random way in which these attacks have occurred — that is to say, without any obvious third party communications or meetings — would suggest that while there may in fact be a chief terrorist, for lack of a better term, it is likely that we are dealing with a very decentralized organization."

"Do you have any proof of that?" asked Warwick tiredly. He'd been forced to do some heavy-duty damage control with all the foreign delegations in the country at the moment. Apparently, they, too, were starting to see some glaring missteps by the SIS.

"Only theories," Xeno admitted. "But they match the profile."

Sighs answered his statement. Harry, palming the lower half of his face in frustration, let out a low growl before pointing at his brother with his index and middle finger. "Put a freeze on all hires," he ordered William, who nodded and wrote the order down in his datapad. "Until we've vetted each and every person we've already hired, I don't want another traitor in our midst."

Ragnok frowned, his mouth twisting in distaste. "This would severely hamper many of the new projects we have in development," the Goblin leader said. "Not to mention impact public confidence in the economy. The financial repercussions could be...severe."

"As opposed to _more_ attacks?" James pointed out icily.

Ragnok glared at his colleague. On a Goblin's face, the effect was significantly more pronounced. "Attacks come with the territory of being the strongest in the land," he snapped. "However, if people think you are afraid, their confidence in your abilities whittles, and that opens the door for a usurper."

"How do you know that?" Xeno asked curiously, having raised an eyebrow in amused surprise.

"How do you think I became leader of my people?" Ragnok merely retorted before giving off a self-satisfied, growling chuckle. "Goblins are new to this...democracy concept of you humans," he noted. "Before I, we would kill and supplant our leaders as I did."

"Charming," Warwick mumbled, turning a bit pale. It was an unnerving reminder of the fact that they were allied with a race that for many years had been feared by the mages.

"The point is," Ragnok digressed irritably as he looked over to his King — something he was still reluctant to accept, despite their almost-ironclad alliance, "that a freeze on all hires would inform the public that we fear we've been infiltrated. Public confidence will plummet for sure, and if the Opposition feels it has fallen far enough..."

"They'll call for a vote of no confidence," Sirius finished with a grimace. Ragnok was right.

"Then what do you suggest?" asked Harry calmly, interested to hear the Goblin's insight.

"Wait for the Advisor to come home from China," Ragnok advised, causing more than a few ministers to suck in air. "Consult him. That man has the ruthlessness of a Goblin. He will know how to keep the people on our side as we hunt these traitors."

What Ragnok was asking was no small thing. Albert Hughes was an incredibly polarizing figure in the government, for those who knew him. While Harry was considered the Father of the Northern Sun, Hughes had easily been its architect, plotting, killing, and manipulating his way into creating a stable state from the ashes of the United Kingdom.

The problem was, his ruthlessness knew no bounds. Loyal as he was to Harry, everyone knew that everyone else, minus the Royal Family, was fair game to Hughes, and he wasn't shy about sacrificing pawns in his operations.

However, after Operation Suckerpunch, and after the near-genocide up north, even Harry had been forced to sideline the advisor before his tactics ruined the Northern Sun's image for good. As such, he'd been tasked with keeping the Asian nations in a state more amenable towards the Northern Sun's entreaties.

It was only recently that he'd sent back word that he was on his way back, having accomplished as much of his objective as possible.

More than a few people had been alarmed at the news. Especially when word arose of new uprisings sprouting throughout China and India.

Even so, Harry had to admit Ragnok had a point. Of all his cabinet, none embodied the dark arts of espionage, sabotage, and murder so well as Hughes did. And considering he had taken a nation on the defensive and made it into the most powerful state in the region, the idea certainly merited some considerable consideration.

Thus, with a nod, Harry agreed. "As you say," he said calmly. "We shall await the advisor, and make a plan then."

* * *

_**Fort Drake, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, February 15, 2018...**_

"Alright, Athena, light it up!"

"Yes, Doctor," the A.I. confirmed the order as her holographic orb pulsed rhythmically. "Stabilizers are green. Flight controls are green. Initiating VTOL sequence in three...two...one..."

Elicia and her team had to undergo herculean restraint not to grin at what they were seeing.

With a roar, the brand new AV Mk. III Fast Attack VTOL Aircraft, affectionately dubbed the Kingfisher, slowly began its vertical ascent, the twin turbines on either end of its "wings" keeping it aloft as they rotated, dipped, and adjusted to match impulse with each other. Inside the cockpit, the test dummy remained inert as Athena effectively ran the entire vehicle remotely.

"Takeoff is successful, all instruments readings at optimal levels," Athena droned on emotionlessly as it put on-screen every bite of data it was receiving from the onboard computer.

"Bring it up to ten meters, Athena," Elicia ordered before turning to one of her subordinates. "Michaels, please ready the weapon systems."

"Would it not be more efficient for I to do so, Doctor?" Athena asked in what passed for a curious tone for an A.I.

Elicia smiled sadly at the hologram. "Unfortunately, you know that the weapons systems are still off-limits to A.I.s, Athena," she reminded the construct gently as she ran her hands over her tablet, frowning as she read the vehicle's streamed data. "Athena, please revise the left turbine's output. I'm reading a 0.04% overuse of power."

"...revising," Athena answered neutrally. "Code exception found," she then announced, much to Elicia's chagrin.

"Bring her back down, Athena," she ordered calmly, not wanting to show her disappointment. While the overuse had been minimal, Elicia couldn't afford to leave such errors in the final prototype. If a single soldier died because the error had been left in and magnified by overuse, she'd never forgive herself. Her rescue by Guardian had ensured her eternal respect for the military.

"Doctor, the overuse was well within our margin of error," one of her team protested.

"An error today is a casualty tomorrow, Mister Collins," she chided the man as she ran her fingers over her tablet again, bringing up the flawed coding. She frowned — one of the computer techs had gotten lazy, it seemed. "I want the software uninstalled and rechecked three times over!" she ordered as she strode up and down the command center for the test. "Let's try not to leave this sort of mistake hanging! Soldiers' lives are on the balance, ladies and gentlemen!"

There was a wave of assent, grumbled or otherwise, which Elicia ignored as she walked over to Athena's holopad and sighed as she typed in the ejecting sequence. "Alright, let's go, Athena. Time for the next project," she told the A.I. as the orb suddenly flashed out of existence just as Elicia took out her chip.

Actually, to say that the chip held Athena was really a misnomer. The _actual_ A.I.'s matrix remained firmly in her lab, having been _the_ first A.I. created and, as such, pretty much immovable. However, given how inefficient it would be to carry out every experiment and project in her personal lab, the Athena Project techs had found a way to basically "break off" a fragment of the A.I.s for use around the facility.

That being said, carrying an A.I. fragment out of Fort Drake was considered treasonous due to the sensitive information these research-intensive A.I.s held, so the soldiers at each checkpoint made sure that none were ever smuggled out.

"I want that prototype ready to go before the end of the week!" she called back at her team as she left the room, flashing her ID badge at a door scanner to let herself out. The device beeped as expected and the door back into the corridor that led deeper into Fort Drake slid open with a hydraulic hiss.

Striding into the corridor, she smiled and nodded as several other scientists passed her by, deep in discussion regarding some project down in Section 2 — Chemical and Biological Division. One of them in particular seemed to be getting tailed by a couple of security guards, which told her he was probably the mage defector from Albion, Severus Snape. She'd heard from her husband that it could have been possible for him to be traded for Rookwood, but she was glad he hadn't agreed to that.

From what she understood, he'd done quite a bit to advance the development of potions and Muggle medicine for the Northern Sun. Apparently, he was somewhat of a chemical genius.

Walking down the corridor, she spied the sealed doors to several other hangar labs on the way down to the elevator. Unlike her Section 5 — Advanced Research Projects Division — lab, Section 1 — Aeronautics and Motorized Projects — needed the open space of the surface to build and test out their new prototypes. For that, the scientists here were called "Gophers." People like her own team, however, worked deep beneath the surface, so they were the "Moles."

She giggled at the nickname. The Section 5 folk hated it, naturally, but she found it somewhat amusing.

She nodded at the two guards by the elevator — both men became ramrod straight at the sight of the Queen — and called it up. Once inside, she sighed as the annoying elevator music came on — apparently, it was _supposed_ to relax the scientists, as they all worked in a rather high-stress environment — and then dialed up Section 5.

She was there in seconds, naturally, and quickly strode down the much more heavily guarded corridor to the double-doors that led to her lab. Again swiping her card for the scanner, she smiled in self-satisfaction as it cleared her, prompting her to push open the door, revealing the cavernous interior of Section 5 — in effect, four hangars worth of open-spaced labs, with adjoining testing rooms and her office overlooking everything from the back.

"_Attention, Dr. Eisenheim is now on the floor,_" the PA system announced her arrival as designed. Most of the scientists paid it no attention, engrossed as they were in their own projects. Only the guards seemed to take any heed, standing more firmly at attention.

She walked down the staircase onto the main floor and nodded at several scientists who greeted her, making her way deliberately towards one in particular. Arriving at the sectioned-off area, she subtly inserted Athena's chip into an inactive holopad as she nodded at the project lead.

"Doctor Ansen," she greeted her long-time colleague. The man turned from his work, still wearing his headmounted microscope, and grinned at her.

"Elicia, dear!" he greeted her happily. "I thought you were up on the surface, with the grease monkeys!"

Elicia smiled as she set her tablet on a nearby worktable and grabbed one of the microscope headsets. The soldering work they needed to do was rather sensitive, so the utmost precision was necessary. "I was, but one of the software engineers messed up the programming for the AV Mark Three," she informed him as she leaned over the latest addition to Ansen's project. "I see you've finally decided to work on the chestpiece."

Ansen snorted. "After all the grief you put me through? You better believe it," he told her good naturedly. "Unfortunately, we're still having some issues getting the hydraulic systems working," he noted with a frown before looking at one of his assistants and snapping his fingers at her. "Jensen! Get the good doctor here a copy of the hydraulic tests results!"

"Yes, Doctor!"

Elicia frowned as she looked over the chestpiece with a critical eye, though chestpiece might've been generous at this stage. Rather, it was more of a skeleton structure over which copious amounts of armour would be set upon. "Let me guess, it's not syncing right," she deduced as she flicked a finger at the skeletonized infrastructure and heard it ping satisfactorily. It hadn't budged an inch.

"How'd you guess?" Ansen asked, a little surprised, even as his assistant came back with the results.

Elicia waved her over to Athena's holopad. "Give it to Athena, she can process it faster," she informed the young woman. The lab assistant hesitated for a moment, glancing at Ansen for confirmation, before complying with the request. "I figured it'd be the problem. The onboard computer just doesn't have the computing power to run the VISR system, the hydraulics, _and_ the armour integrity systems."

A lesser man might've lashed out at her then, probably wondering why she hadn't pointed out this design flaw earlier on, rather than allowing the team to waste their time. Ansen, however, merely closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and frowned at her. "I'm assuming you have a workaround?" he asked.

Elicia smiled at her colleague and nodded. "I have a _theory_," she admitted as she checked every inch of the chestpiece's skeletal infrastructure. She ran her fingers along the reinforced carbon fiber filaments before stopping at the place where the chestpiece would interlock with a back piece. "Segregated computers," she told him, motioning towards the small of her back. "Right here. One in the helmets for VISR, the other one handling the automated functions of the hydraulics and armour integrity diagnostics system."

Ansen's eyes widened a fraction in surprise. It was rather...simple, but effective, if it worked. "But what about interfacing VISR with the armour diagnostics? With segregated computers, there'd be no communication between the two unless we fused the whole thing together."

Which was simply ridiculous.

She winked at him as she stood back up and removed her headgear. "Unless we use an undersuit that serves as a bridging component between the helmet and the torso computers," she pointed out.

Ansen was quiet as he processed the idea. It would cost quite a bit more to design such an undersuit, especially if it was supposed to incorporate flexible, conductive materials in order to connect the helmet and torso computers, not to mention trying to make it cost-effective enough for mass production. Or hell, not even for mass production; just for SSI production!

On the other hand, implementing the Queen's idea could allow them to finally move Project ACHILLES from the standard Mark II model to the Mark III he had envisioned and his team had been working on for the past several months. As it was, they were on the verge of scrapping the idea of implementing hydraulic assist in the armour, which would've increased the wearer's strength by a substantial amount.

"How are we supposed to power it?" Ansen then asked, correctly deducing a major problem in the scheme. The helmet on-board computer was powered easily enough with several heavy duty batteries. However, powering hydraulic assistance _and_ an all-encompassing armour integrity diagnostic system would require energy production on a whole other scale. Even if they stuck ten batteries in the armour, there was no way the suits would be combat viable for anything more than a couple of hours.

Elicia grimaced. "Yeah, that's the one thing I haven't managed to solve," she admitted before motioning towards the active holopad, where Athena's holographic orb was pulsing with activity as she went through Ansen's project data. "Athena's been running some calculations on a few ideas...but so far, we've got nothing."

Ansen frowned as he scratched at his chin. "Pity," he mused disappointedly. "Without a viable power source, the hydraulic assistance systems seem a lost cause."

Elicia nodded reluctantly.

"Fuel cells."

Both scientists practically jumped the moment Athena's synthesised voice spoke up. Looking towards the holopad, they saw the orb shift from left to right, as though it was looking at both of them.

"Athena?" Elicia asked, a little surprised by the A.I.'s boldness.

"You asked me to run calculations on possible power alternatives for Project ACHILLES, Doctor," the A.I. responded neutrally. "However, my data was incomplete. However, with Doctor Ansen's test reports, I can now conclude that the most viable power system for such a device is the fuel cell."

Ansen frowned. He'd never heard of an A.I. deducing an invention creatively, without outside, human input. Much _less_ a first-generation A.I. like Athena, whose function was basically relegated to data processing. "I've never heard of fuel cells."

"Fuel Cells: theoretical power storage and generation device. First pioneered by Christian Friedrich Schönbein in 1838. Developed for the first time by Francis Thomas Bacon in 1939 during trials for new power sources following oil crunch as a result of Middle Eastern isolationism." Athena recited emotionlessly as her data streams glowed — a sign she was recovering the information in real time. "Project status: marginalized since 1956. Focus shifted back to petroleum-based energy following increased tensions between West Germany and France. Displaying plans."

Elicia was stunned, though she worked hard to keep it off her face even as Athena brought up a cross-section of the fuel cell design. What Athena had just done, despite its upgrades, was unprecedented, and somewhat unnerving. A.I.s like Athena were meant for data processing, number crunching, and simulations. Creative thought was most _definitely_ not within its programmed parameters.

And if it could now act outside of those parameters in this one instance, what _else_ could it do?

Even so, past her growing apprehension at her A.I.'s evolving capabilities — which, by itself, was far beyond the scope of what they'd expected of it — the idea of using fuel cells was a good one. Brilliant, even, she realized as she checked the design. The 1939 design was too antiquated, of course, but she could easily see how it might be reverse-engineered to handle Fuel Crystal Energy.

"Inspired..." Ansen praised the A.I. obliviously as he checked the schematic as well. "Interchangeable fuel cells. Yes...this could work. We'd have to set up an emergency backup system for when the switch has to happen, of course, but I could easily see this working with Elisian energy."

Elicia blushed at the term. Unlike her colleagues, she still called Fuel Crystals by their original name. However, her colleagues had been petitioning the Royal Academy of Sciences to change the name to Elisium, in her honor, as she had been the one to discover the wide scope of use of this previously secretive magical element.

She was one of the few voices to dissent. She didn't think she deserved the honor, as she had merely worked with what Harry had given her way back then. If anything, the first discoverer of Fuel Crystals ought to have their name affixed to the new element.

"Portability wouldn't be an issue, either," she noted as she twitched a hand, telling Athena to alter the perspective of the projected cross-section. "An expansion and lightness spell, and SSI troops would be able to carry over a dozen of the devices."

Ansen nodded in agreement, but then frowned. "However..." he drawled out, pointing at the device. "If we use Elisian energy, or even hydrogen, which seems to have been the basis for this design..." he noted slowly. "Each fuel cell would be highly vulnerable to violent explosions if shot at. That means bulkier protection."

"Which is expensive," Elicia finished the thought, prompting a nod from her colleague.

Ansen grimaced and groaned as he straightened up again, crossing his arms in annoyance. His surprise at Athena's moment of innovation had quickly disappeared from his thoughts, engrossed as he was with this new problem. "Bulkier armour means more protection, but could also imbalance the whole suit. Not to mention make it more expensive."

"Runic reinforcements?" Elicia suggested as she still examined the cross-section.

Ansen pondered on that for a moment. "That could work," he conceded. "But we're already incorporating the Magidrop runes as well. We'll have to test it out to see if the two sets are incompatible on the same armour."

Elicia sighed, knowing they had a _lot_ of work ahead of them. Even so, she felt equal parts excited and distressed. Excited, because they might actually be on the verge of developing both a workable suit of power armour — a dream come true for many of the geeks in Section 5 — as well as possibly finding a way of making Fuel Crystal Energy available not just for electricity, but also for cars, buses, airplanes...the exact boundaries were well out of sight!

Which brought her to her distress. However useful fuel cells could be, Athena _should not_ have been able to deduce its feasibility in this project. That simply wasn't its function. It should have merely gone through the calculations she'd asked, and provide Elicia with the final results. That Athena had been able to..._evolve_ her coding, for lack of a better term, was unprecedented, unexpected...and potentially dangerous. She frowned. Was this a result of the A.I. reaching the end of its predicted lifespan? Athena _had_ been commissioned in 2015...if anything, she'd managed to _outlive_ her life expectancy!

Perhaps it was time to have a chat with Doctor Patil.

* * *

_**Brixton, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, March 2, 2018...**_

Josefina glared at the screens surrounding her.

It'd been two months since the first attack had happened in Oxford, and since then, many more had happened, raising the death toll to approximately three hundred and fifty. As expected, public confidence in Sirius' government had plummeted, and the opposition was baying for blood — or, more pragmatically, a vote of no confidence.

Realistically, however, there was no way the vote of no confidence would work. Sirius' party had more than necessary seats well in hand, even accounting for defectors, and Warwick, with his massive propaganda empire, would never allow it.

However, the fact that the attacks continued — always suicide attacks, always in public or government locations — meant that the blame was starting to shift solely onto the SIS, which brought Josefina no end of problems.

Xeno's tenure had come under fire, despite his amazing track record as Director, having pulled off Operation SUCKERPUNCH and bringing down more than a few terrorist cells before they'd been able to mature into something truly dangerous. His inability to bring these attacks to a halt, however, had caused many in the media — even those pro-government — to question the SIS' leadership.

It was not something Josefina enjoyed contemplating.

"Team One, Team Two," she spoke into her headset. "Close in. Slowly. Don't want to spook the target just yet," she ordered.

"_Copy that, Lead,_" both team leaders responded softly as she watched the CCTV footage of both black-clad assault squads move into position near the rather quaint suburban home of their target.

This was their biggest break since the attacks started. During one of the attacks, an off-duty cop had managed to critically injure the suicidal attacker. While the woman was dying, an Interrogation Mage from the SIS had quickly arrived at the scene and, in the woman's death throes, had ripped whatever information he could from her mind, leaving her braindead seconds before her body gave out.

To absolutely no one's surprise, no one present protested this gross violation of the dead woman's rights.

Sadly, the Interrogation Mage hadn't been able to glean many details out of the woman before she died, but he _had_ found a link to another individual who, according to every record on the attacks thus far, hadn't been a victim or perpetrator, yet.

That meant they had a narrow window of opportunity to get at the dead terrorist's colleague before he put two and two together from the media.

Josefina brought up the target's file on-screen. "Ivan Valentinovich Akulov," she reminded the team over the comm, frowning as she read on. Her eyes stayed glued to the rather plain picture for a moment — burning it into her memory — and then resumed their reading. "Son of Valentin Akulov and Samantha Huxley. Father immigrated from Russia four years ago, worked as an industrial worker. Lost his job a year and a half ago, died three months ago in a car crash."

"_Sounds like every immigrant sob story there is, ma'am,_" the leader of Team One noted dryly.

Josefina didn't smile. "It's not the immigrant bit that's bad, Thomas," she told the man sternly as she dragged down the target's bio. "It's that each of our identified terrorists have had the same circumstances. Middle and lower class. A good start to life, comes crashing down with the loss of family, work, or both. All of them seem to blame the government for what's happened to them."

"If we know this much, why haven't we caught others like them?" asked one of the operators in the command post. Josefina sighed and glared more fiercely at the CCTV footage.

"Because no one likes airing their dirty laundry, so we don't know these details until it's too late," she explained as she crossed her arms under her breasts. "Thomas, Ferguson, talk to me," she digressed, bringing her mike closer to her mouth.

"_Target house is still dark, no sign of activity,_" Thomas answered softly. "_Team One is all green and good to go._"

"_Rear's clear._" Ferguson followed up. "_Team Two is ready for breach._"

Josefina nodded and checked the monitor whose feed was aimed at the rooftop of a nearby house. A sniper team from the Emergency Situation Response Team had been co-opted for the mission — after having forced them to sign so many confidentiality documents that even thinking about the mission after the assignment would be grounds for treason, naturally.

"Sniper Team, report," she ordered as she began pacing the inside of the van's command center, sorely tempted to bite her thumbnail — a horrible habit she hadn't really been able to kick since she'd been rescued by Harry from the war in Spain.

"_No visuals, Lead,_" the sniper reported calmly. "_Thermals indicate three individuals in the house._"

Josefina frowned. While that did correlate with their information, which indicated that the target appeared to be shacking up with a girlfriend and her kid, it did present problems. What if the girlfriend was in on it? Could the target take her hostage to prevent capture? The operation couldn't really allow for a prolonged hostage situation, simply because the more time passed, the more likely it was that the media would get involved,

And if the media got involved, then _all_ the other sleeper agents would know that the SIS was onto them.

"All teams, no chances," she stated firmly, drawing on her inner spy to blunt her emotional dislike of the possibility that they may have to kill an innocent to get to their target. "We _cannot_ allow the target to escape or draw in the media. If the girlfriend resists, put her down, but the primary is to be taken _alive_. Copy?"

Deafening silence answered her. It didn't surprise her in the least. Even if they were all SIS personnel, with the exception of the ESRT sniper team, they were all also human. There would be no joy or pride taken in killing innocents.

"_Solid copy, Lead,_" came the reluctant acknowledgement from Team One, quickly repeated by Team Two and the Sniper Team. Josefina was sure she'd come out of this operation with some new Ice Queen-esque nickname.

Hazards of the job.

"Insert on my mark," she continued with her firm tone as she continued glancing between the monitors. There was _no way_ she was letting this asshole slip through her fingers. Hughes himself had come down to SIS Headquarters to..._emphasize_ how critical it was that they capture this target alive.

She shivered at the memory. Despite lacking magic or being in any way physically imposing, Hughes still managed to scare the crap out of her.

"Go."

She watched as both insertion teams sprung into action, hefting the battering rams and smashing through the doors. Within seconds, both teams were in, shouting almost incomprehensibly, such that she could barely keep track of what they were saying.

"_Thermal imaging shows subject and secondaries getting out of bed,_" the sniper team informed her.

"Copy that," she acknowledged. "Thomas, Ferguson, eyes wide open, gents. He knows we're here." she reported before looking over to one of the technicians in the van. "Bring up the infrared scan of the house."

The main monitor soon showed a greenish image of the house, with blazing white, humanoid figures representing everyone inside. Only the electronic beacons on each of the insertion team members allowed her to differentiate who was who.

She watched as her teams cleared the house room by room, with Team One practically steamrolling their way into the master bedroom, where she could see the target reaching for a cupboard. "Eyes on the primary," she warned calmly. "He may have a gun stored away."

"_Copy that, Lead,_" Thomas answered grimly, just as he kicked open the door and again, began screaming at the two inside to get down and put their hands behind their heads. "_Eyes on the primary!_"

"_He's reaching!_" another team member warned.

"Less than lethal, go!" Josefina wasted no time.

In a split second, Thomas moved out of the way for another man on his team to draw, aim, and fire their taser gun. Ideally, they would've just had a mage insert and stun everyone, but with the attacks happening literally _everywhere_, the mages were on high demand, such that even the SIS' operation was de-prioritized.

She held her breath for a moment as the chaos continued, and finally let it out when she heard Thomas' voice again.

"_Target secured. Secondaries secured. House is clear. I say again, house is clear._"

Josefina sighed in relief. First good news she'd heard all day. The technicians in the van, for their part, were far more exuberant, high-fiving each other and whooping in celebration. "Copy that, Team One," she said with a small smile. "Clear the house and bring him in. I know some Interrogation Mages who want a chat with our friend there."

She heard Thomas chuckle over the comm. "_Copy that, Lead._"

"Good work people. Let's wrap this up," she radioed to everyone before pulling off her headset and sighing in relief as she plopped down into her seat, finally hit with all the pent-up tiredness she'd been holding at bay.

"God, I need a drink," she muttered.

* * *

_**Undisclosed Location, March 5, 2018...**_

"Do you love your girlfriend, Mister Akulov?"

The restrained man glowered into the darkened face of his interrogator. His hands were in cuffs, each shackled to the ground and ceiling to allow him some mobility. He could barely think straight, however. They'd kept him up all night, then thrown cold water onto him, always silent, never talking to him.

Like he was some sort of plant, or object. Dehumanized in his entirety.

"Because you know, you certainly _look_ like you do," his interrogator noted as he flipped a picture the SIS strike team had recovered from Akulov's girlfriend's residence. "She's cute, too."

Again, Akulov remained defiantly silent, only growling and glaring at his captor. The interrogator didn't seem frustrated, however, as though he was perfectly fine with Akulov's intransigence.

"You do realize we don't need you to talk, don't you, mister Akulov?" the interrogator asked calmly as he tapped the picture. "I mean, we'd rather you did, but we're not so short on manpower that we can't just rip the secrets out of that head of yours."

"You think death scares me?" Akulov finally asked with a grim grin. "I escaped the _oprichniki_. I escaped the Blackout. You think I fear you?" he spat on the ground in defiance. "Do your worst, Northerner."

The interrogator answered the man's defiant stand with a simple clapping of his hands, as though mocking his ability to survive the worst the anarchy in Russia had thrown at him, before the Russian government had returned to full control.

"Congratulations, then," the interrogator told him simply as he stopped his clap. "You're a survivor, I see that now. You've undergone pain, possibly torture, and escaped certain death at the hands of the far right paramilitaries."

Akulov smirked. "So you know you waste your time," he said.

"With you?" The interrogator motioned at him, cocking his shadowed head to the side. "Yes. Complete waste of time." He concluded turning away and moving towards the door. Akulov smiled victoriously, knowing he'd held out and spared his comrades a black bag and a a secret death.

That feeling came crashing down, however, when the interrogator stopped by the door and turned to him. "But you know, what about that girlfriend of yours?" he mused.

Akulov's attention snapped back to the interrogator. "What?" he asked, his throat suddenly dry and his spine growing cold.

"Well, there's just _no way_ she could've shacked up with you and _not_ know, right?" the interrogator observed, walking back to Akulov and standing right on the edge of the shadows. Akulov couldn't make out anything yet, but he understood well enough that this man was incredibly dangerous.

"She knew nothing," Akulov stated firmly.

"Now, why would I trust you?" the interrogator asked as he crossed his arms, giving Akulov a glimpse of a very well-tailored suit. "You're a terrorist. You're a criminal. You _know_ you're headed for a firing squad. Why should I think you'd be honest with me?"

"Because it's the truth!" Akulov insisted, straining against his chains.

The interrogator was silent for a moment before chuckling. "The truth?" he parroted, obviously quite amused. "Mister Akulov, the truth is that you know who the other members are, but I don't. You have an informational advantage over me. As far as I know, even her _kid_ is involved!" he exclaimed suddenly, moving into the light and grabbing Akulov by the throat.

Finally, Akulov had a face to put to the man interrogating him. It was impossible _not_ to recognize him, after everything the man had done for the Northern Sun.

Albert Hughes, Advisor to the King himself.

"Now, I'm thinking, maybe I should _ask_ them," Hughes growled at him as his fingers clutched tightly against Akulov's throat, causing the man to start choking. "But as you can see, I'm not blessed with much _patience_."

"...Not...involved...gk..." Akulov choked out.

Hughes brought his face closer to Akulov's, staring down the man with ruthless, cold eyes. "Now why would I _care_?" he asked dangerously as he practically touched the man's cheek with his nose, so close he was. "You know who I am. You know whose ear I have, and if I'm right, you know what I've done for this country. What makes you think I won't fill two more graves just to get the information I _need_?" he hissed.

Akulov tried to swallow, but Hughes' grip was firm. "...mon...ster..." he managed to gasp out angrily.

Hughes showed no reaction to the term. As far as Akulov could see, Hughes showed..._nothing_. "What if I am?" he asked nonchalantly, a small smirk growing on his face. "This...monster, as you call me, is the one that got his hands dirty. The one who _built_ the Northern Sun from the miserable, anarchic _wreck_ of the United Kingdom! I am the hand of the King himself when he cannot afford to be tied to the more...unpleasant aspects of ruling."

He drew back and finally let go of Akulov, whose face had been purpling from lack of oxygen. As soon as he did, the man gasped out for air, taking deep, heaving breaths as he collapsed to his knees, his arms held up by his chains.

"So here's what's going to happen," Hughes stated simply as he dusted off his hands, as though trying to get rid of Akulov's presence. "You're going to tell me everything I want to know, or I'll bring Miss...what was it? Maggie? Sally?" he mused, sounding somewhat amused at having forgotten. "You know? I've quite forgotten."

Somehow, Akulov doubted that, and the mere fact that he'd stated such a thing sent a chill down his spine. This was _nothing_ like what he'd expected of the Northern Sun. As far as he and his comrades knew, the Northern Sun was being led and kept aloft by corruption, passivity, and economic discrimination.

They had most certainly _never_ expected it to be backed by people as morally absent as this man!

His shoulders sagged. He couldn't risk Nelly, or Brad. Through all the hate he'd held against the Northern Sun, they'd been the sole bright lights in his life. Neither deserved to die a horrible death at this man's hands.

"...I..." he spoke slowly, grimacing as though each word tasted like sulfuric acid. "...I will talk."

Hughes smiled as he squatted down to Akulov's eye level and grabbed him roughly by the chin. There was no surprise in the man's features. Hughes had obviously known that the way into Akulov's head had been his attachment to his girlfriend and her kid. Besides, if he refused to talk, there was now an _ample_ pool of snitches to choose from...and all it would take would be an Interrogation Mage tearing the secrets out of Akulov's head.

"I _know_ you will."

* * *

_**Dover, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, March 15, 2018...**_

"Mentor, it appears we have a traitor within our midst."

Riddle paid his subordinate little overt attention as he continued reading his book, comfortably sitting in his plush chair in the middle of a rather luxurious living room — courtesy of...well...let's just say a _generous_ former tenant who no longer had to worry about property taxes.

"Fourteen of our comrades have been arrested," the subordinate continued, sounding quite angry. Not that Riddle hadn't known already about the arrests. Still, if his subordinates felt this was a major crisis, he supposed he should comfort them...for now.

It wasn't easy to think this way, he realized. Back in the old days, if his minions had failed him, he would just kill them, or torture them a bit as an example. But those ways had driven him to overconfidence, to delusions regarding his own powers and his mortality. That had led him to obsess over a prophecy that had ended his reign for more than a decade, allowing another to supplant him.

Riddle closed his book. It was strange. In a way, he admired the Potters. They had done what he never could — they had achieved ultimate power. But, almost as though perversely orchestrated to reject his belief system, they had based their rise to power not on mages, but on Muggles.

Filthy, common Muggles.

Initially, he'd paid the cause of his fall from power no heed, focused as he was to recover his body. He tried everything, including an attempt to get the Philosopher's Stone, and to use the Triwizard Tournament, but everything failed. His followers were out of his reach — Quirrell, his first host, was a pathetic bungler who wasn't able to crack the defenses around the Stone before Flamel _and_ Dumbledore arrived, forcing Riddle to flee again and giving the Ministry an excuse to impose heavy security measures on the Wizarding World.

And with the Triwizard Tournament, he'd hoped to reach out to his former subordinates, but found them impossible to reach, especially with Dumbledore and Flamel watching them like hawks.

By the new millenium, Riddle had reached the edge of despair and fury. Thwarted time and time again, he vowed vengeance on everyone — including his disloyal subordinates who left him to rot as a spectre. It wasn't until 2005 that he recovered physical form — courtesy of a German Ministry official who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

By then, however, he'd become little more than a memory to the Magical World.

No longer trusting his subordinates, he laid low. He watched them go about their lives, acting as though the years under his service had been but memories. Only a select few stayed the course — and all of them were in jail.

And then he heard rumours that the Potters were alive, living from place to place in Europe. Abandoning his plans to recover his seat of power in the UK, he tracked down what leads he could, hunting for the bane of his existence, fully intent on killing him on sight.

What he saw shocked him.

By the time he'd caught up with Potter, the child had become a man, and a soldier. Watching Potter at work was breathtaking to Riddle. He watched the young man cast Fiendfyre and wield it with laughable ease, whereas Riddle's own subordinates would have struggled to even maintain it under control for more than a few minutes. Even more galling was the fact that the young man did so wandlessly!

Wandlessly!

Riddle had considered killing the boy then and there, but relented. While he'd curled his lips in disgust at Potter's subservience to the Muggles, he'd soon understood that, in truth, it was _Potter_ who was leading the _Muggles_ by the nose. They needed him, relied on him...and so empowered him.

Riddle was patient. Let his minions wreck what havoc they wanted to in the British Isles! Here was a fine specimen of a _truly_ powerful mage!

Riddle studied the young man as he rose to power. He kept to the shadows, naturally, never actually intervening or revealing himself to anyone. In Spain, he played the role of refugee, civilian, and, occasionally, soldier — requiring more than a few murders to abscond with their gear.

He was also forced to do away with his snakelike features, or risk blowing the secrecy of his return. A few sacrifices and a ritual soon got him his original, human face. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed not looking like a carnival freak show until it'd succeeded.

He wasn't stupid, by any means. He knew he was watching the rise of a titan, and was determined to understand how Potter was managing this...before he ultimately killed the young man and took what was rightfully his.

Riddle felt a bit of regret, over the years, at the thought of killing such a wonderfully ruthless mage. If they hadn't been locked in a mortal destiny that required one to kill the other, he might've even extended an invitation to Potter to join him, or offered his services, even — as a precursor to Potter's inevitable murder, of course.

But what he learned, and learned quickly, was that Potter's success wasn't so much based in his feats of magic, but in the loyalty he inspired in his men. Not the sort of fear-induced loyalty _he'd_ imposed on his own Death Eaters, but rather the sort of fanatic loyalty that came out of blind belief.

And once the chips came down and the civil war started in the British Isles, Potter had still repudiated the mages, and instead sided with one of the Muggle factions. He even created the Military Mages — a wonderful idea, in Riddle's opinion — and sent them to _help_ Muggles. _Help_.

Unthinkable! Yet it worked!

And with their gratitude came loyalty, services, resources! They built the monuments and infrastructure he desired! Riddle was astounded. He couldn't believe how meteoric Potter's rise had been! From a lowly soldier to King of the most powerful nation in the world — according to Riddle, that is.

It was remarkable! Extraordinary!

It was educational.

But the time for learning had eventually come to an end, and Riddle had taken his lessons to heart. He revealed himself to his Death Eaters and manipulated them to their own doom — for they were unrecoverable. He could never convince them to accept the Muggles into their ranks, so they needed to go. But before then, they would make great tools to move his plans into position.

And while the Death Eaters would soon perish, blamed for countless deaths, Riddle was able to adopt the mantle of Mentor, going for the weak links of the Northern Sun. Those left behind, the ones who _hadn't_ benefitted from the nascent empire's rise. And there were _so many_...

It was like a treasure trove of hate!

Riddle never lied to them about his abilities. In fact, he still rather believed himself superior to the Muggles, due to his magical gifts. But he no longer treated them like dirt. With a bit of charismatic empathy — fake or not — he was able to bring them over to his side with words and minor acts of help, buying himself the undying loyalty of people far more dangerous than the Death Eaters for the simple reason that they were _completely_ off the Northern Sun's radar and _everywhere_.

And while the first phase of his plan had now been accomplished, it was time for phase two.

"Inform the others to start packing up," Riddle ordered his subordinate.

"Mentor?" the man asked, surprised.

"We have caught the SIS' attention," Riddle stated patiently as he stood up, book tucked under his arm, holding back the psychopathic urge to kill the man. "And we have focused it here, in their own backyard. Now, it is time to take from them what makes them mighty."

Confusion still marred the features of his subordinate. "What's that?"

Riddle smiled toothily, and quite evilly, at the man. "Their allies."

* * *

**_Post-AN_**_: As you can see, I'm not going to focus on the "witch hunt" in the Northern Sun regarding these terrorists. They're only one facet of Riddle's plan, which will in turn lead to the next great war and the rise of the Empire, even if Riddle himself hadn't foreseen that path._

_As always, I look forward to hearing from all of you!_

_Cheers,_

_MB_


	35. Chapter XXXV: Midnight

_**AN: **Next chapter! Woot!_

_However, this chapter, and the past one, has brought something to light for me: No matter how much I keep pushing back the prologue, I always seem to run out of time. As such, I am going to change the prologue date to 20XX, and just fill the Xs in when we get there. I think we can all agree that's probably for the best._

_Also, a reminder that if you want constant updates on chapter statuses, I occasionally post said statuses via my Twitter account, marquis_black. I'm trying to see if I can get the hang of it._

_Cheers,_

_MB_

* * *

_**Brussels, Belgium, April 20, 2018**__**...**_

The sudden stop of attacks within the Northern Sun took everyone by surprise. Even though a major breakthrough had been achieved in identifying the culprits behind the suicide attacks, no one had expected the terrorists to suddenly lie down and die while the Northern Sun beefed up security.

They were proven wrong.

Within a week of Akulov's capture, several other terrorists had been identified and neutralized — some resisted, some didn't. Even so, it shocked the SIS — to the point of paranoid suspicion — that these ideologues had suddenly decided to lay down their arms.

The public, naturally, wasn't as discerning. For most of them, the takeaway was that the attacks would stop, and life would return to normal. Popularity polls for the ruling party and the SIS rose by a respectable margin, which for most politicians, was all they needed to hear.

Hughes, however, refused to believe things were so simple as that. In the weeks after Akulov's arrest, he'd pushed for deeper investigations into the attacks. While others may have been content in writing them off as the work of isolated anarchists or malcontents, Hughes was certain there was a dimension to the attacks that no one was paying attention to, himself included.

Fortunately, his ability to round up sources to end the terror attacks had granted him some influence in the Court once more, and while it was obvious that Harry was willing to write off the attacks altogether, he granted Hughes the right to use SIS resources, both A.I.s and its agents, to investigate the situation.

So while the SIS was busy rounding up potential terrorists, he was focused on trying to figure out the pattern behind the whole mess. Yes, only government buildings had been targeted. Yes, each attack had some sort of symbolic significance. Yes, they all seemed connected to this Mentor figure...

But even so, Hughes couldn't help but feel as though he was missing something. As though a piece of a rather grandiose puzzle was still out of reach.

That piece finally fell into place today.

Hughes frowned as he observed the chaos around him.

Paramedics, policemen, civilian volunteers...all of them raced about as they acted, primarily on instinct, to the event that had just occurred.

The King of Belgium's convoy had been attacked.

To many, it was an unthinkable event. Why would the King of Belgium — the head of a minor country within the ETO — be a target? What political blow could this possibly land against the ETO — no, against the Northern Sun?

Hughes knew better. He knew exactly why the King and his family were now dead. It was the very same reason why the royal families of Spain, the Netherlands, and Luxembourg had to be protected now. It was simply a logical step within a complex, logical plan.

If the Northern Sun proper couldn't be attacked from within, then its power could be diminished from without.

Not that many would agree with him. Political scientists of every learned institution might point out that Belgium's contribution to the ETO was minor, besides being the headquarters for the organization. After all, the Northern Sun was the greatest financial and military contributor to the European Treaty Organization...just as Hughes had envisioned it. So empowered, what did the island kingdom have to fear from the loss of a ruling monarch of a minor partner?

To Hughes, the answer was laughably simple: credibility.

Politics ran on credibility. Even if you were a lying sack of crap, as long as you were credible, you had the power to influence. The Northern Sun's ability to influence the ETO was firmly rooted in its credibility as the umbrella that protected the lesser nations. As long as they were indebted and dependent on the Northern Sun for protection and financial stability, the other member states would continue following their lead. By doing so, they provided the Northern Sun a firm base of operations on the continent.

Which one could argue wasn't really necessary anymore, what with the conquest of France, but Hughes again dissented from that view.

Now, more than ever, it was necessary for the North's allies to remain firmly in their pockets. France may have been conquered, but he'd already identified several socioeconomic markers that predicted a potential insurrection within the conquered French territories. If the Northern Sun ever lost its international credibility as a superpower, France would revolt, and years of planning would go down the drain.

He could see why the Goblins had been so adamant for him to return from China.

Even if he'd set up the stage for the conquest of France, it hadn't been his strategies that had won the battlefields of the war. Had it been up to him, Paris would've been razed the moment it became obvious that it would be a hard target to acquire. Resistance elements would've been hunted down like dogs — or, failing that, their families would have, to pressure them into surrender.

But instead, the Northern Sun had employed conventional strategies, backed by the more pacifist tendencies of the Queen, Prime Minister, and the Foreign Office.

Hughes frowned as he continued his visual inspection of the blast site around him. While for the most part apolitical, the Queen had begun to seriously threaten his plans for assimilating the other ETO members into a grand, European Empire. Under her vision, the Empire would be federalized, democratic. The member nations would voluntarily join the Empire and submit to the Northern Sun.

...in perhaps ten or more generations, or so.

Hughes rejected that vision. He wanted a centralized Empire. He wanted the member states not just to join up, but to utterly submit. The royal families of each Kingdom would be..._convinced_ to abdicate in favour of Harry, and a plebiscite — a sham one, if needed — would confirm their inclusion into his vision of a strong and powerful Empire. The Northern Sun would cast a beacon of progress and strength towards the future, and no one would dare raise a hand against it.

But now, there was a real threat that neither vision would come to fruition.

The Belgians, while one of the Northern Sun's most ardent allies, would not quickly forget or forgive the Sun's inability to protect them from a terrorist attack of this magnitude. With the SIS _legally_ having set up numerous stations throughout the country, the Belgian government would likely demand an explanation for the SIS' inability to discern a future attack.

The truth was, Hughes understood perfectly well that this was the point of the attacks in the first place.

By discrediting the SIS, the Mentor was focusing everyone's anger on the one institution in the Northern Sun with the ruthlessness and tenacity to effectively protect it from these sorts of threats. And frankly, despite the fact that they'd dropped the ball in preventing these attacks, and others, Hughes remained convinced that the Northern Sun was better off _with_ the SIS rather than without.

Though, considering he was one of its founders, he supposed he was rather biased in that aspect.

He wouldn't have to wait long for the backlash, either. Already, Hughes could spy a few citizens behind the police's yellow tape start muttering amongst themselves, ill-disguised expressions of fury easily reflecting their inner feelings to him.

Pathetically transparent sheep.

Were this the Northern Sun, he would've pushed for Warwick's considerable propaganda machine to pump out as much literature and broadcasts as possible in order to maintain public calm. However, given that this was a foreign nation, Warwick's ability to influence the public were severely limited.

Too limited, in fact.

Another main reason he'd pushed for the rapid absorption of the Northern Sun's allies.

He frowned as he caught a few pieces of vulgar Flemish and French expressions being thrown around, a few of them in conjunction with the Northern Sun. To Hughes, the way these people were reacting was unacceptable, if perhaps objectively understandable. The Northern Sun was the vanguard of the future — the sole guarantor of a vision of a united human race. So what if this minor King and his family had died? So what if the SIS had failed to prevent this? They were now merely martyrs in service of the greater cause.

This was one of the reasons he disliked the Queen so much and valued William Potter's input. Unlike the King — whom Hughes admired fervently, but for a few disagreements on priorities — the younger male Potter sibling saw the whole world as one logic puzzle after another; completely devoid of sentimental attachments — merely distracting diversions he used his considerable brainpower to solve with the best possible result in mind.

That said, sometimes he sided with Hughes, sometimes with the Queen. As empirically logical as William Potter was, he was completely disinterested in Court politics and merely sided with whomever his reason demanded he support at the time.

It made him a powerful ally, but also a powerful enemy.

"Advisor."

Hughes barely acknowledged the agent's presence as the mage appeared at his left flank. He had been one of the thirty Hughes had requisitioned from the SIS to investigate this recent attack. "Report," he ordered calmly. Idly, he noted that the mage's appearance, especially wearing the identifying badge of the SIS, had riled up the masses a bit more.

"No magical residue was found within the wreckage or the surroundings," the mage informed him neutrally. "In addition, the monitoring posts here have detected no spikes in magical activity. The attack appears to be non-magical in nature."

Like those in the Northern Sun. Neither had to say it to be thinking it.

This confirmed it more than ever for Hughes — this was the work of the Mentor, who insisted on remaining firmly outside the public limelight.

"A suicide attack?" Hughes asked. If so, Mentor would have a pattern, which the SIS could crack. To his discontent, however, the mage shook his head.

"Our bomb unit has identified the likely place of ignition within the fuel tank," he stated calmly.

Hughes sighed. Of course it was. This Mentor fellow hadn't set up this intricate web of international sabotage and terrorism just so he could get caught by a few profiling tricks. As hard as it was for Hughes to admit, it was likely that the Mentor would continue shifting tactics the moment the SIS began making headway.

Just who the _hell_ was that guy?!

* * *

_**Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, May 1, 2018...**_

"He's charming. He's quiet. He's tall. He's small..."

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, clenching his eyes as he felt his creeping headache worsen. "I get it." he muttered.

Hughes didn't seem to register his king's words, as he continued his rant. "He's powerful, he's modest, he's proud..."

"_I get it_." Harry snapped, finally prompting Hughes to stop his monologue. Even so, the Advisor fixed his liege with a stern glare.

"This Mentor is making a fool of us," Hughes noted calmly, though it was obvious from his body language that he was anything but. "Not only do none of his agents know him personally...he's also managed to plant a wide variety of personas as his own! Who's to say _which_ of these descriptions are even _real_?" Hughes snapped before tossing the file onto Harry's ornate wooden desk.

"Believe it or not, Albert," Harry muttered, darkly amused by his advisor's lack of restraint. "I'm not exactly happy with this information, either."

Hughes gave him a stiff bow of apology. "My apologies, sire. I did not mean to snap."

Harry rather doubted it, but waved the apology off. "Whatever," he said dismissively before tapping the discarded folder as he stared down his old war buddy. "Albert, even if our polls here are rising again, thanks to all the arrests Xeno's made, it'll all mean squat if our allies think they're better off without us."

Hughes narrowed his eyes as he nodded. "I know."

Harry continued his rhythmic tapping, still not breaking eye contact with him. "Then you know what I'm about to ask of you."

Hughes bristled, though he made a good show of keeping it under wraps. "With all due respect, Your Majesty, finding the Mentor should take a higher priority!"

Harry stayed firm, however, stopping his rhythmic tapping to settle his hand, open palmed, on top the file. "No, Hughes. Stopping our allies from deserting us is more important," he stated evenly. Seeing the Advisor about to make a snap judgment — quite uncharacteristic of the normally even-tempered man, Harry quickly headed off his probable route of blame. "And my wife has had no impact on this decision, Hughes." he warned him. "This is my own decision."

"With all due respect, sire," Hughes stated as calmly as he could, clasping his hands behind his back rather painfully as he tried to reel back his anger. "It's the wrong one."

Harry stared the man down for a moment before smirking. "Not many would have the stones to say that to me," he noted.

"Not many knew you back when you were a wet-behind-the-ears Major, in over his head," Hughes reminded him.

Harry shrugged. That was true enough. Besides, it was actually refreshing to hear someone call him out on things, rather than just nod and go with the flow. Thankfully those sorts of people didn't amount to many in his court, mostly because he refused to ennoble anyone who didn't actually earn their goddamn title.

"Even so, our power and influence in the continent lies in our credibility as protectors of the ETO," Harry reminded his advisor. He _really_ wished Hughes wasn't so difficult, sometimes. "We have given guarantees of protection to each one of our allies, and it would destroy our hold if more of them were to fall victim to the Mentor's attacks."

"Sire, with all due respect, even if it's not now, they _will_ rebel against our power at some point," Hughes insisted as he remained rooted to his spot, still exuding defiant body language. He calmly brought up a hand and massaged his jaw pensively. Time to switch tracks. "Let's say Her Majesty's vision of a federalized Empire were to come to pass...then who would lead us? You? Why should you? The other nations may not agree with our suggestion, and enthrone a lesser King or Prince."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "You're being paranoid."

"That's what you pay me for," Hughes noted. "And it makes sense, doesn't it?"

Harry pursed his lips into a thin line. Yes, he did have a point; an incredibly paranoid one, to be frank, since there were diplomatic and underhanded ways to weigh the vote to the Northern Sun's favour, but a valid point nonetheless. So far, the Northern Sun's plan of a federalized European Empire was banking on the idea of vast, undivided popular support for his candidacy as Emperor...but what if Hughes was right? "Perhaps," he allowed warily.

Hughes smirked internally. He had Harry's attention — good. As good a man as he deep down was, Harry's time in the military, and his resentment against the mages, had also given him a ruthless streak a mile wide...perfect for manipulating his darker emotions.

"Let me hunt down the Mentor," Hughes insisted as he came closer to Harry's desk and placed his hands on the edge, leaning forward. "Between the SIS and I, we can find him. We can stop him before things get out of control."

Harry said nothing. Nothing was better than a firm 'no,' however.

"...and our allies?" Harry eventually asked, forcing Hughes not to pat himself on the back.

"...will be informed that we will be relying on them in order to bring the Mentor to justice," he answered calmly, repressing the dark smirk that threatened to come out anyway.

Harry sighed. Elicia would be _very_ unhappy with him, but Hughes did have a point. To be honest, going after the Mentor had been _his_ knee-jerk reaction, too, but he'd deferred once Elicia and Joshua urged him to focus the considerable resources of the SIS into protecting the allied governments.

"With so much still to be done to keep the Northern Sun safe," Harry tried, hoping this would divert Hughes' attention from this problem. He doubted it, but it was worth a shot. "Are you sure you're not taking on too much with this? Maybe you should focus on the Northern Sun's internal security, not the Mentor..."

Hughes cocked his head to the side, a calm smile on his face. "You have the determination to become one of the most important men in history, sire," he stated simply. "As your subordinate, it is thus my duty to give care to _all_ things, big and small, near or far, that might threaten your dream. From the lowest criminal to the largest superpower. If one prepares for rainfall, then one can prevent even a single drop from breaching through."

Damn Hughes and his logic.

Waving Hughes off, Harry decided his needed time to think on this alone. As he watched the Advisor straighten up and leave, the King leaned back into his chair and swiveled to look at the full-wall window that overlooked the Palace Gardens. It always soothed his psyche to just stare at the beautiful horticultural collection — his very own, nearby Garden of Eden.

And heaven knew he needed to be calm right now.

Closing his eyes, he decided to try an old, logical deduction exercise he'd indulged in, back in Liverpool College. Branching, he liked to call it. First, he focused on the problem — the Mentor. He was the Northern Sun's top priority at this moment, because despite the evidence that Germany and Russia had been involved in the kidnapping of his wife, the Sun wasn't strong enough to take the war to these nations just yet. Elicia and her team were hard at work to remedy that issue, but until it _was_ resolved, Harry refused to mobilize his troops.

The next step to his exercise was to visualize two paths leading away from the Mentor. One involved hunting him down; the other, protecting their allies. Frowning, he weighed the pros and cons of each one. Each pro and con, in turn, was given its own "branch," via which he rationally deduced potential outcomes. Then he rationally deduced further pros and cons and outcomes based on the previous outcomes, and so forth and so on.

Eventually, in his mind's eye, he could see the vast branching flowchart of the situation slowly reveal itself to him. All stemming from the Mentor.

Thousands upon thousands of choices, decisions, outcomes, and so forth raced through his mind as he considered each one, discarded, or tucked them away for future consideration.

This exercise had earned him a reputation as something of a genius in Liverpool College, since it basically allowed him to deduce concepts faster than anything else. That couldn't be farther from the truth, however. All the exercise did was provide him with a clear-cut, simplified decision-making scheme, free of emotional or tangential considerations. It was severely limited in scope, for that reason, but it _did_ help him tough out the harder decisions.

It also carried the hazard that if you relied too much on it, you emotionally dulled yourself. Case in point, his brother William.

He let out a low growl of irritation, not at all worried that his guards may hear him. Every one of them underwent monthly loyalty tests to ensure they would never blab on him. No, what had his attention fully focused was the issue at hand...and its repercussions, in the long run.

He supposed he _could_, technically, rule forever. Nicholas Flamel seemed to have proven that indefinite longevity wasn't out of reach. By that logic, then, he could just go with Hughes' route and live with it, since his daughter would never have to be at the helm of a country that basically sacrificed its allies to catch one man.

On the other hand, the prospect was daunting. Eternal life had a way of skewing one's perspective. Considering the horror stories he'd heard of Riddle's own search for immortality, he was less than enthused about going down that path.

Besides, idle heirs tended to slide down a rather dangerous slope that consisted of boredom and a reckless disregard for the law.

So yeah, no. His daughter would inherit the throne, and he would get to enjoy some years of retirement, damnit.

Which, sadly, brought him back to his current problem. If he followed Hughes' route, that was going to be a hell of a stain on the Sun's record. Not altogether impossible to erase, or whitewash, but enough to put a damper on their more humanitarian efforts across the world.

On the other hand, if they _didn't_ go with Hughes' route, then the Mentor would have received a free pass to go nuts while the Sun kept playing catch-up. More people would die, but the Sun will have stuck by its allies...or more specifically, the heads of state of said allies.

He frowned. He hadn't thought of it like that before, admittedly. If he ordered the SIS to play bodyguard, that meant less resources to protect the general populace, or the military-industrial war machine. But if he ordered the SIS to go on a full-on manhunt, then a few people would die, sure, but the Mentor's ability to truly disrupt the ETO and the Northern Sun would be severely cut back.

Plus, the faster they killed the son of a bitch, the more people they could save.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Damnit, Elicia was _not_ going to be happy with him.

* * *

_**Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, May 10, 2018...**_

"Bait?" Xeno asked, somewhat askance. "You want us to use the heads of state, of our _allies_," he stressed. "...as _bait_?"

Hughes shrugged as he rested in Xeno's comfortable chair. The Director of the SIS' secretary had let him through without much fuss, and he'd made himself comfortable while waiting for Xeno. More importantly, this was actually rather telling of their actual power dynamics. Both men knew that the reason the SIS even existed with its current mandate was in large part due to Hughes.

In other words, magic or no, Xeno was Hughes' bitch.

Which didn't fluster the mage in any way, considering that he knew Hughes was both loyal to the Northern Sun and smart enough to keep the SIS from crossing any lines they shouldn't.

"I don't see what the big deal about it is, to be honest," Hughes noted wryly as the chair tilted back a bit. "It's not like we haven't done the same before. With more people, in fact."

"Those were military operations," Xeno pointed out as he went over to his bookshelf and returned the folders he'd taken for his meeting to their proper spot. "We're talking about deliberately endangering allied heads of state. People that _like_ us."

He didn't have to elaborate that, in today's Europe, the number of foreign governments with that attitude were definitely not in the majority.

"You make it sound like I want you to line them up for target practice," Hughes mentioned amusedly.

"Don't you?"

Hughes scoffed. "Please. That's too straightforward and dumb. I want you to hang around the heads of state...and anyone else who's vital to our plans...and just watch them. From afar," he added, knowing that otherwise, Xeno would probably try to infiltrate their bodyguard detail. No sense doing that if the enemy's MO so far was to explode stuff. Less bodies to tie to the Northern Sun that way. "If they die, they die. I won't lose any sleep over that. But if they survive, they survive. As long as the Mentor is found, I don't care what measures you take."

Xeno was quiet for a moment, cupping his chin in thought. "...is the King aware of this?" he asked softly.

Hughes smiled thinly. "He is aware that I'm planning _something_. He need not know the details," he stated simply. "Plausible deniability, and all that."

Xeno frowned. "I can't see him approving of this plan, even if he hears about it after the fact," he pointed out. Between memories of his wife's kidnapping, his experiences in Spain, and the terrorist attacks in London that almost derailed his plans completely, there would likely be too much emotional baggage there for Hughes and he to come out scott clean.

Hughes shrugged. "He will," he assured his sort-of-subordinate. "He understands that sacrifice is often necessary for the good of the nation. He knows I would never lead him down a path that would ultimately harm our dream."

Xeno eyed Hughes warily. He'd been a willing accomplice in many of the advisor's crueler plans, and a firm supporter of his "might makes right" philosophy of life, but there were times — like this one — when he began to wonder if perhaps Hughes wasn't so deep in the dark that he couldn't see _any_ benefit from alternative philosophies or plans.

Even so, his bed was made.

Xeno nodded as he slowly nodded twice. "I understand," he said softly. "I will have Josefina oversee the operation."

Hughes smiled at Xeno; always one step ahead. "Good," he agreed. He'd been planning on recommending the young woman anyway. Unlike Wolfsbane or Xeno himself, he had little to fear in terms of Josefina's convictions. If anyone was more devoted than he was to the King and the Northern Sun, it was Josefina. Hughes merely had to point her at a target, and he knew she would see it dead.

No questions, no complications.

The most beautiful strain of loyalty.

Unfortunately, Hughes that was a rather rare strain to begin with. Even Xeno, in that respect, was somewhat suspect. He made a mental note to talk to Josefina before the plan took off.

Standing up, he smiled calmly at Xeno and walked over to shake his hand in farewell, before excusing himself from the room. Giving the secretary outside a perfunctory nod, he made his way down the bland corridors of SIS headquarters towards the exit. Even if Josefina had to be contacted, there was little value in doing so _right now_. All it would do would be to alert Xeno that perhaps he had something else in mind.

Better to leave that surprise for later.

Instead, he just calmly made his way towards the exit, exchanging brief greetings with either star struck agents who knew of his reputation, or with simply polite individuals who would've fitted in nicely amongst the Canadian population.

His mind, however, was awhirl.

Xeno had given in, as expected, but still harboured his doubts, as he could plainly see. Despite Xeno's usual ruthlessness, Hughes knew that the man was also firmly against betraying allies, prompting him to suspect that the Director's tenacity regarding this operation was tenuous, at best.

Which is why he needed Josefina.

He had a feeling that perhaps even the King had given in too easily...and if his sources within the Palace were correct, then his decision had already caused discord at home. Knowing the King's fondness for his wife, Hughes understood that his decision might reverse at any time — such was the prerogative of a quasi-absolute monarch.

But Hughes would not be deterred. He knew what the Northern Sun needed, and he wouldn't allow such emotional baggage to tie his hands.

If the King did decide to change his mind, then all Hughes had to do was prepare for it.

Not a drop of rain would fall through his preparations.

* * *

_**Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, May 15, 2018...**_

"Am I...being righteous?"

Elicia lifted her gaze from her book as she heard her husband speak, his normally vibrant green eyes seeming a little dull as he otherwise quietly watched his daughter happily play with her toys in their living room under Cecilia's watchful gaze.

Unlike most days, today Harry was wearing his blue Military Mage uniform, having apparently just returned from their local barracks, where he'd — if she heard right from the guards — had proceeded to trounce one mage after another in spars. He never gave an explanation why, either. According to the house staff, he'd just showed up out of the blue and ordered them all to spar with him.

Elicia, however, could hazard a guess or two.

The past few days had been rocky between him and her. She'd pled with him for weeks to refocus the SIS towards protection of their allies, rather than initiate a manhunt for the Mentor. Statistically, it seemed the best choice at the time. Yet, with a single audience with Hughes, he'd reversed his decision...seemingly just because the Advisor had asked.

Not since they were teenagers had they fought — verbally — so much in such a brief period of time.

She'd accused him of disregarding her and Joshua's advice at the drop of a hat, as though Hughes were the sole man on earth capable of understanding long term strategy. He'd retaliated by pointing out that Hughes, did, in fact know more than she did when it came to military strategy. She'd then argued that _he'd_ been the one to acknowledge her and Joshua's point in the first place, and that by his reasoning, Hughes was superior to him. He'd then shot back that she was putting words in his mouth and that wasn't the point at all.

And so on, and so forth.

The staff had been incredibly helpful in keeping a lid on things, too. Whenever they saw the two rearing up for another go, they quickly took Katerina away from ground zero and made sure that no gossip of this ever left the premises. Cecilia was particularly helpful by casting silencing charms on the room before she evacuated Katerina. There was just no sense in letting their daughter catch sight of her parents' discord.

Their last argument had been four days ago, after which she had given him the silent treatment. Effectively, too, if his moroseness was anything to judge by. His appetite had decreased, his zest for rule was slowly withering away...these days, he let Sirius manage the Court in his name, while he just sat in his office, in the library, or went to his personal training grounds, which he apparently turned into a minor war zone after venting his anger more than a few times.

As such, this was the first time they'd spoken to each other in four days, and as angry as she still was with him, Elicia had to admit she was starting to feel her own will crumbling, little by little.

"No," she answered honestly, though hearing the sound of her voice visibly surprised Harry, who winced.

Harry quickly recovered and palmed his face with both hands, rubbing it up and down in apparent frustration. "...I know." he stated at length.

"But you're still going to go through with the plan?" she asked archly.

Harry knew that tone of voice. If he answered incorrectly — in her mind, anyway — then another fight would break out. He was in no mood for another fight.

"What choice do I have?" he asked morosely as he lowered his head, his hands clasped tightly before him. Across the room, Cecilia was starting to notice the warning signs of another argument, and quickly whispered something to Katerina that made the little girl's eyes widen in joy.

In an instant, the girl bounded over to her parents and grinned toothily.

"Ceecee says we can go to the park! Can we?!" she asked her parents happily, failing to see the obvious tension between the two. Harry had quickly brought up a brilliant smile for his daughter, while Elicia gave her the same, caring smile she always showed her.

"Of course, Katie," Elicia agreed for the both of them. She shot Cecilia a thankful nod before bending down to hug her daughter. "Have fun, and remember to listen to Ceecee!" she lectured.

Katie returned the hug fiercely before doing the same with her father, who added in a small peck to her forehead. The girl grinned up at her parents before running back to Cecilia, whose hand she grasped as she was led out. Even so, the future Queen took the time to make a half-turn and wave goodbye to her parents, who emulated her until she was out of sight.

Both sighed in relief once they saw the doors glow slightly from Cecilia's silencing spell. Yet, immediately thereafter, Elicia snapped her book shut, got up, and turned to face her husband with a frown, her hands planted on her hips akimbo.

"You _know_ Hughes is manipulating facts to make thing seem far more dangerous than they are, yet you persist in listening to that man!" she chided him.

Harry grabbed the back of his head, his back bent forward. "Ellie, it makes _sense_...in the long run." he defended himself.

"Just because you can't guarantee the results of a _democratic_ election that's _years_ in the future, doesn't mean the people won't see you for the hero you are when it _is_ time to vote!" she insisted. She was convinced of that. No matter what, whether it was two days from now or ten, she was _convinced_ that the people of the ETO would see that her husband was the _right_ choice for Emperor.

"How do you know that?" he asked her sharply as he raised his head to meet her gaze. "How do you know that in the next battle, in the next war, someone else won't just come along and usurp our standing? You think it's not possible?" he asked. "We're foreigners to them, Ellie. Our allies are more allied to each other than they are to us. Hell, what if they fear us enough to vote us out of power when it suits them best?"

Elicia's frown turned into a glare. "You're justifying murder!" she snapped. "We both know what Hughes is like! If you let him retask all of the SIS into hunting down the Mentor, you _know_ he won't settle for a few snatch and grabs! He'll _kill_ his way to the man!"

She pointed at the door. "And you think Katie won't eventually hear about this?" she asked. "About how her father once let loose a mad dog go on a, pardon the pun, witch hunt?"

Harry frowned. "Don't bring Katie into this, Ellie."

Elicia raised an eyebrow in challenge. "Why not? You think she's not going to be affected by this?" she asked sharply. "Katerina, Queen of the Northern Sun, daughter of the man who sanctioned the murder of thousands just to grab one terrorist!"

"And how many will die if we _don't_ grab that _terrorist_, Ellie?" Harry asked as he got to his feet and stared her down. Even so, she didn't appear remotely intimidated — which he cursed, considering that anyone else getting this treatment from him would've cowered immediately. He blamed it on their initial, volatile relationship, back when they'd first met. "If we keep playing defensive, how many will die while we play catch-up? If we go after him, sure...a few people will die. But the sooner we grab him, the faster the attacks stop!"

"At what cost?" she asked, her stare unwavering as she poked him in the chest. Hard. "The SIS' gaze will be so narrowed down that they'll miss all the other attacks they _could_ have stopped! You might stop the big ones, but the small ones? You'll keep letting them through. People will _keep dying_!"

"So what, you want me to split the SIS' attention?" he asked, glaring into her eyes. "Stop as many attacks as we can while hunting down the Mentor? Real efficient, that!"

She just stared at him defiantly, and he knew he had her. The logical thing, in reality, would've been to demand that he have the SIS cooperate with local intelligence networks. Unfortunately, these very organizations had been the hardest hit of all during the Blackout, and the Northern Sun forbade the sale of A.I.s, intelligence equipment, and so forth to any external power.

Essentially, the SIS was the _only_ intelligence organization in the ETO. Part of the foundational treaty of the organization had been the acknowledgement of each party state that intelligence operations would depend on the SIS; the spirit behind that clause being that if they all depended on the same network, then the fear of backstabbing would be nullified.

Reality, however, often laughed at such sentiments. This was one such time.

"So recruit more," she told him evenly. He blinked. He hadn't expected her to go on.

"What?"

"You heard me," she said, again poking him in the chest. "Recruit more. Expand the SIS. Have Sirius pass another requisitions act. If manpower is the reason you won't split the SIS' attention, then get more people."

"And risk the Mentor infiltrating our organization?" he asked with a growl. "There's a _reason_ why a freeze in hires is in effect, Ellie."

She again placed her hands on her hips. "You're honestly telling me the vaunted SIS has _no_ _way_ of screening recruits or ensuring loyalty?" she asked him archly.

Well...none that would pass judicial scrutiny...or survive a lawsuit.

"Why are you so desperate?" he asked her, honestly rather confused. "These aren't our people. We owe them nothing."

Her gaze turned sad. "They're our allies, Harry," she reminded him. "Our friends...sort of. And they _will_ be our people. We can't just pick and choose _when_ we're nice to people. We either are, or aren't."

"That's naive."

She snorted. "That's why the people love you. Because you're wise and kind. Look at France," she noted.

"What about it?"

"By Hughes' estimation, we should probably be expecting a rebellion there in the future, right?" he nodded reluctantly. "Well then, if his logic holds, then we should be harsh and cold towards them, because it's all but inevitable. But we're not. We've given them homes, work...purpose. And what has the SIS said about the threat assessment regarding a French insurrection?"

Harry narrowed his eyes. Technically, that information was for his eyes only. He had no idea how she'd gotten her hands on it, but it certainly earned his wife a rise in respect for her cunning. "Low to Unlikely." he admitted.

Elicia nodded. "People want to live in peace, Harry. They may support one side, or another, but at the end of the fighting, they just want stability, justice, and order. They don't care who rules, so long as they rule well. The ETO is no different."

Harry fell back onto the couch, palming his face in frustration. She was right. But so was Hughes. Damn them both.

"You make my life so utterly complicated, woman," he growled half-heartedly as he leaned his head back onto the couch's back.

Elicia smiled as she took a seat next to him, gently stroking his arm. "I keep you on the right path, love."

"And that's what so damn complicated."

Isn't that the truth?

* * *

_**May 16, 2018...**_

"A novel idea."

To be honest, Harry was somewhat stunned. After having pondered the issue overnight, he had finally decided to go with Ellie's sugestion of expanding the SIS to handle _both_ tasks simultaneously. When he realized he had to inform Hughes, however, he'd somewhat expected the man to blow his lid. He'd been the one to push for a hiring freeze, after all.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked, still uncertain his Advisor fully understood what he'd said.

Hughes shrugged. "While I am still convinced that a hiring freeze is necessary, as well as the focusing of our energies towards finding the Mentor, I admit that Her Majesty's suggestion has its merits," he conceded calmly.

Harry caught himself trying to silently cast a magic detection spell, somewhat worried that perhaps Hughes was being Imperius'ed into saying these things. Or maybe this Hughes was an impostor?

Then he remembered that the most stringent security protocols were in place to prevent such infiltrations, and that Astoria would rather fall on a pike than allow _anyone_ to bypass her security measures.

"I must be honest, Albert, I rather thought you would disagree," Harry noted worriedly as he leaned back in his chair.

Hughes shrugged again. "I admit, I am not entirely pleased with this turn of events," he admitted. "But I have learned to fight only those battles I can win. Capturing the hearts and minds of the rabble has always been such a vital cornerstone of Her Majesty's belief system...I would never wish to appear disloyal by insisting that she's wrong and I'm not. I am, after all, but a humble servant of the Crown."

There was some cruel, sarcastic joke in there somewhere; Harry knew it, even if he couldn't find it. Hughes was never a man to take a beating and live with it. Not without some underhanded ploy to return every blow a thousand fold.

The difference between them being that where Harry would deliver payback personally, Hughes preferred killing with a borrowed knife.

Which made the man exponentially more dangerous than even most armies in Europe.

Even so, there was no time to deconstruct Hughes' twisted thought process at the moment. The man was accepting the newest change of orders, and he was willing to go through with the new plan. That was good enough for now.

"Very well," Harry stated, trying to sound unconcerned. "I entrust you with overseeing this task, then, Albert. I wish you the very best hunt."

Hughes bowed in thanks before straightening up. "Thank you, sire. I will not let you down." he said gratefully before excusing himself.

Once outside, Hughes eyed the mahogany doors that shut behind him for a moment before setting off down the halls towards the front doors. As always, he could feel the eyes of the Royal Guards on him as he made his way out, even if they were never in sight. Astoria had truly exceeded herself in upping Palace security, he had to admit. She was just as loyal as Josefina was, to boot.

Too bad she had no room in her heart for _anyone_ other than the King and the Princess Royal.

He waited until he was in his car, driving away, before he dug up his phone and speed dialed a particular number. He'd been expecting this meeting with the King ever since he'd first changed his mind. In a way, it was rather sad that the most powerful man in the world was so predictable.

Then again, it was also a valid reason for keeping people like himself around. If the King was predictable, then it was Hughes' job to make them _un_predictable.

"It's me," he spoke up calmly as soon as he heard the distinct click of the call getting through. "Do it."

With that, he hung up the call and tucked the phone away for later disposal. Burner phone though it might be, it was best to ensure that all incriminating evidence be properly disposed of.

And by properly, he meant used as a tool to further his designs.

And by designs, he meant the rise of the European Empire, with Harry at its helm.

* * *

_**Paris, French Occupied Territories, September 20, 2018...**_

The attacks grew worse, over time.

After the terrorist events in the Northern Sun had subsided, a new wave of attacks, heralded by the one that killed the King of Belgium and most of his family, had begun in full earnest on the continent, specifically targeting allies of the Northern Sun.

Government buildings or NGOs that obtained Northern funding...it didn't matter. If it was in some way tied to the Northern Sun, it could count itself as a target.

So far, four hundred people had died from the attacks, which never held to a single pattern. Some were mass shootings, others were bombings, and in one specific event, train tracks were damaged to derail an entire passenger train into a ravine. No one survived that one.

At first, the Northern Sun's allies placed the blame fully on the shoulders of French holdouts — sore losers who wanted to keep the war going and expel the Northern Sun from its lands. Doing so earned the local governments some confidence from the masses, as the Northern Sun's victory over the French — who had been quite disliked already — was viewed as just and complete.

Over time, however, targets that had _no_ military value began to get hit, such as the passenger train, and people began to notice that no French rebel group was taking credit for the attacks. In fact, _no one_ was. That meant that the rebel fringe group theory quickly lost credence, and the governments began feeling the heat of the masses' justified anger.

And that's when the finger pointing began.

Some local governments accused the political opposition, a few more blamed the Germans, and a fringe few blamed the Russians or the Northern Sun itself. The latter remained practically ostracized from public discussion, thankfully, or else the SIS would've had a much larger body count to deal with.

Nonetheless, as attacks against the governments picked up, the idea of fringe opposition groups striking at the ETO and the Northern Sun began to take shape, until the Northern Sun's mighty propaganda machine decided to run with it, under Hughes' express order.

Joshua was not pleased.

Even so, the Minister of Foreign Affairs had to admit that the theory allowed the Northern Sun some cover while they investigated everyone and anyone connected in any way to _any_ leads they found on the Mentor, which were abhorrently few. But eventually, even this tactic lost footing, as Hughes' archenemy finally revealed himself in the worst way possible on August 15.

In the midst of the single most popular television show in the ETO.

Hacking the feed, the show's video was quickly overwritten by that of a prerecorded message, showing a man sitting in a humble chair at a humble table, his face shadowed out of sight. His voice was silky, smooth, and more importantly — convincing.

He spoke of how his fight was with the Northern Sun; how he would strike against its allies to weaken it. How _all_ they had to do to avoid his wrath was to simply abandon the Northern Sun to its fate. To let him and his people return to the good fight back on the Isles.

If Hughes wasn't so desperate to kill the man, he would've applauded the amazing trick he'd just pulled off.

The Mentor had caught _everyone_'s attention with his attacks. One had to be living as a recluse _not_ to have heard of the terrorist attacks happening throughout the ETO. And now they had a face — figuratively speaking — to put to those attacks. More importantly, they had a _reason_.

A reason easily discarded.

Kill with a borrowed knife.

The son of a bitch was _calling him out_.

The fallout was remarkable. Practically overnight, masses of angry citizens throughout the ETO were in the streets, demanding that their governments listen to the Mentor and dissolve the Treaty — unaware as they were of how difficult that would be without triggering a war.

Something, Hughes was sure, that the Mentor knew full well.

As the protests escalated into riots, it became _very_ dangerous to be openly associated with the Northern Sun. The Northern embassies in each ETO party nation had to be evacuated, lest the rioters break in and cross a line they shouldn't, and in more than a few cases, Northern citizens came under attack. Warwick had a hell of a time trying to soothe things down.

The SIS, for its part, followed its original orders to the letter. While the ETO buckled under the strain of domestic discontent, the SIS continued its investigation into the Mentor, also helping in foiling many minor and major terrorist plots before they could begin. As always, however, the agents were merely part of a decentralized system, and so no headway could be made.

Until _the_ incident.

Sometime in July, Wolfsbane — now once again known as Remus Lupin, after his retirement — had received a tip-off from a source in Paris that there had been a man trying to recruit some folk for an anti-Northern group. On the surface it just seemed like another band of French malcontents, but something about the recruiter had caused the informant to call Remus directly, prompting the retired agent to head off into the field one more time to pursue the lead.

What he found was the trail of one Michael Clarkson.

Almost immediately, the A.I.s at SIS headquarters had pinged the name. He'd been a medium-level player at the Dover Immigration Services branch. More importantly, they found that despite a record of only rarely taking up inspections personally, and only in really odd cases, the last time he'd done so had been during a rather standard docking procedure for a refugee ship. In other words, there'd been no need for his personal intervention.

Just the sort of potential mole the SIS had been hunting for.

The only problem was, Clarkson had disappeared from the face of the earth a week after that procedure. According to his office, he'd gone on vacation a full week and a half after the attack at Oxford.

Which explained why no one had found it odd. It was way outside the usual timeframe for people bolting after a successful attack.

Except he'd never returned. His office had received a letter of resignation, citing a new employment opportunity at a small firm in Belgium. Only, despite the fact that both the firm and the offer were legitimate, Clarkson never showed up. The Belgian firm had simply assumed he'd changed his mind.

So Clarkson had gone off radar...until Remus' informant had caught him trying to recruit people at his tavern in Paris; only _now_ he went by Pierre Lacroix.

Remus and the SIS wasted no time in hunting down Clarkson. Once Harry was informed, he quickly ordered Curtis and Speirs to dispatch the SSI to help in the hunt, which was considered by both high-ranking members of his government as overkill, though they complied.

With the SSI as backup, _literally_ falling out of the sky as they arrived to provide help, with Fireteam Guardian at the helm, the SIS-SSI task force quickly narrowed down Clarkson's hiding spot, using a combination of grid search, geographic profiling, and pursuit curves.

Which all led the SSI teams to a run-down old warehouse on the edge of the city.

"_Talk about cliché..._"

Ford snorted into his comm as he slowly advanced through the junkyard that encircled the abandoned warehouse, the rest of his team fanned out all around him. "Tell me about it," he noted wryly at Liam's justified comment.

"_Who cares where the fucking traitor decided to bolt to?_" Buchanan gripped. The petite woman was casually holding up the team's LMG like it was nothing — courtesy of featherweight charms. Useful things, those. "_A traitor's a fucking traitor. If that dumb fuck wants to go out like some comic book trash, let 'im._"

"_Even the villains in my books tend to go out smarter-like,_" Alice weighed in, amused.

"Noted," Ford remarked as he stepped over a trash heap, his MAC rifle raised and sweeping left to right to left as he scanned his surroundings for Clarkson.

"_Man...fuck this guy, sarge. Can't we just bomb the bloody berk to kingdom come?_" the ever-present whine of King asked. "_I had a date tonight!_"

"_Get real, King. No amount of pity was going to get you laid._" Buchanan snarked.

Ford thanked his lucky stars that every weapon in the SSI had built-in programs that prevented a Northern weapon from firing on an SSI trooper — ostensibly to prevent friendly fire incidents — or else he had a feeling King might've shot Buchanan on the spot for that dig.

"Easy now," he stepped in before things got too hot. "Focus on the mission. And no, King, we can't kill the berk, however much he may deserve it, because the eggheads want to know what he knows."

Thank goodness for that...since he doubted Buchanan or Bergstein would've let the man live to see another day if they had a choice. The latter had been quite affected by the terrorist attacks, particularly when children were involved in the body count.

"_What about if he's with friends_?" asked Liam, sound amused by all of this. Ford wanted to kick his friend so badly for that, though; _especially_ when he saw Buchanan and Bergstein perk up.

It took him a moment to figure out what to say. "..._If_ he's got backup..._and_ they fired on us...or we had no choice...then I guess it's okay to waste the bastards," he conceded.

He determinedly ignored the short whoop of joy given by Buchanan, or the satisfied grunt from Bergstein.

"_Target in sight. Fifty meters past the stack in front. Open ground._"

Honestly, that was the longest sentence Ford had heard out of Petrovsky in some time. Even so, he was glad for it. The stacks of junk surrounding the warehouse had made the whole place into a sort of maze, keeping much of the warehouse out of sight. Fortunately for Guardian, however, they had left Petrovsky to his own devices, and the sniper appeared to have found a decent spot to keep an eye on them and their progress.

He waved his team to crouch down as they slowly made their way to the stack, only standing again to press their backs to the makeshift wall. "Any tangos in sight?" he asked.

"_Negative. Visuals clear._"

That seemed unlikely. Switching channels, Ford called up his SIS handlers. "This is Guardian Lead to Vanguard. We are in position, fifty meters from target building. Requesting infrared fly-over. Over."

There was a brief pause before he received an answer. "_This is Vanguard. Request acknowledged. Drone fly-over in three mikes. Over._"

Ford nodded and raised three fingers to his subordinates. "Acknowledged. Guardian Lead out." he stated as he watched his team nod at his gesture. "Spectre, infrared fly-over in three mikes. Patch into the feed."

"_Copy._"

Rather than just depend on Petrovsky's assessment, however, Ford, too, patched into the drone feed, watching as a small window opened on his HUD with a greyish image of the drone's camera feed playing. He could see white, humanoid figures of civilians going about their business back in the city as the drone made its way to the warehouse, and found it somewhat chilling that the SIS had these on standby at any given time.

So much for personal liberties.

Even so, the drones had been part of the SIS' expansion program. A cost-effective way of decreasing the amount of foot soldiers they needed to collect information. With the drones in the air, they could observe a large swathe of the Northern Sun's sphere of influence without necessarily requiring an agent on the ground...unless direct, human intelligence was required in a particular instance.

And to be honest, it made it all the easier to track Clarkson's escape, which served Guardian just as well. They were soldiers, not bloodhounds, damnit. Ford did _not_ enjoy the idea of having to chase some traitorous dick all around Paris.

Watching as the drone's feed reached the warehouse, Ford easily identified his team's strobing beacons — approximately fifty meters from the warehouse structure, just as Petrovsky had informed him. What came after his team, however, was more concerning.

He counted at _least_ fifteen individuals inside the warehouse. Most of them near where he expected the windows to be. A frontal assault would be suicide.

Well, sort of. Their armour would give them a fighting chance during the charge, but the real question was — did he want to risk that?

The answer was a resounding _hell no_.

"I see fifteen," he informed Petrovsky.

"_Same_."

"Can you take out the campers?"

"_Yes._"

Ford nodded with a smile hidden behind his polarized visor. "Good. Wait on my signal." he requested, only to see the man's readiness icon blink once. Apparently he'd decided he'd fulfilled today's quota on talking.

Turning to the rest of his team, he pointed towards Petrovsky's general direction, made the gesture to indicate seeing something, and then the gesture to indicate fifteen unidentified combatants. A series of nods answered him as he raised his rifle.

"We go on my mark," he told them, satisfied when he saw each of their readiness icons blink once. He took a deep breath as he counted down mentally. Three...two...one..."Mark."

Even before he turned and grabbed onto the top of the stacks, he heard the cracking sound of Petrovsky's rifle firing once...twice...four times in quick, barely interrupted succession. By the time he was jumping over the stack, he could see the warehouse's second-story windows had decent-sized holes in them, and there was audible screaming coming from within.

"_Targets down. Relocating._"

Ford blinked his icon once to acknowledge Petrovsky's report as he led his team into the warehouse, holding position at one side of the large entrance gap as return fire soon greeted them. "Liam, take Snap and Doc and hit them from the right flank. The rest of you, on me!" he barked as he leaned out of cover and fired a burst, watching with grim satisfaction as their opponents ducked into cover. "Go!"

He darted out of cover, quickly taking survey of the situation, and hauled ass towards the nearest stack of junk being kept in the warehouse. From the looks of things, this had been the traitors' hidey-hole, but in order to keep their cover intact, they'd been forced to leave the warehouse with much of its original, useless junk. In fact, he was quite certain that the piece of trash that _just_ saved him from having his suit hit by an errant round was supposed to have, at some point, been a radiator.

Maybe.

"Anyone got eyes on Mister Bumlicker?" he asked as he leaned out to fire off a couple of rounds, which other than drilling a few decent holes in the enemy's cover, did absolutely nothing. He sighed as he saw the team's icons blink red once. Of _course_ not.

"Spectre, we're a little tied down in here," he called up his sniper as bullets continued to ricochet off his tower of garbage. "Think you can go fetch me a traitor?"

A green icon blink. Good. Turning to Liam's small team over on the other side, also crouching out of sight, he noticed Buchanan seemed antsy. Glancing over to his own team, he saw Bergstein was much the same.

Well, he _did_ promise...

"Snap, Bear, you're up," he said wryly. "They're all yours."

In hindsight, he might as well have just thrown a bomb into the enemy's midst. It had the same effect.

Both heavy weapons specialists had practically shot out of cover the moment they were told to do so.

Buchanan, being the whirlwind of destruction she usually was, practically strode out with her LMG firing as fast as it could without melting down its magnetic coils. Ford nearly grinned as he saw the enemy duck for cover as the magnetically accelerated rounds turned anything they touched into swiss cheese. Then, to add insult to injury, the petite woman dashed forward, catching one nearby mercenary off guard by the sudden act, and with few wasted moves, she slammed the merc in the face with her LMG, causing him to stumble back, then tore him in half with a quick burst of her gun, before turning on her heel and continuing her frenzy of destruction.

Her partner, for his part, fired on every environmental hazard he could find, not exactly having Buchanan's firepower on hand. What he lacked in raw firepower, however, he more than made up with in precision attacks that suddenly made the enemy's cover a hell of a lot more dangerous to them. With precision strikes, he caused one stack of junk to topple over, crushing a couple of mercenaries who'd been hiding behind it under its weight. In another case, noticing one mercenary cowering behind a series of stacks, he caused them to tumble like dominoes, causing said stacks to fall on the enemy trooper.

In one particularly instance, which both bought Bergstein the next round at the bar and quickly became Ford's favorite feat of ass-kicking, Bergstein aimed at the support beams that held up the overhead railing the enemy was using to gain the upper ground over them, causing the whole thing to collapse, killing four enemies as they tumbled to their deaths.

If anything, those two made for excellent covering fire.

Coming out of cover, Ford quickly took aim and fired his rifle with pinpoint precision, aided in part by his HUD. Three more fell dead, holes punched through their torsos. All around him, he saw the rest of his team emulate him, slowly advancing deeper into the warehouse, towards the office at the very back, on the second level. That was most likely where the traitor was.

"Spectre, report," he ordered in a clipped tone as he took cover once again.

"_In position. Ready to infiltrate from below._"

Excellent. Hopefully, with Petrovsky's breaching action, some of the heat would shift focus, allowing the rest of Guardian to sweep up the rest of these clowns. "Do it."

As expected, a rather loud blast sounded out, shaking the entire structure. Ahead of them, Guardian could see the second-floor office's windows blow out thanks to the breaching charges' shockwave. Thankfully, they were more about being flashy and loud than they were about actual damage, so Ford was certain that the office inside remained whole enough to guarantee the target's survival.

Even so, he now had a golden opportunity to finish this, and he wasn't about to let it slip by.

"Let's go, Guardian!" he ordered as he again ducked out of cover and opened fire. "Clear the room!"

TEAMCOM was suddenly filled with cries of "Ura!" as his team charged forward, guns blazing. Ford winced as a few enemy bullets hit home, but were thankfully bounced off by his armour. Even so, the kinetic force of the impact was enough to snap back whatever part of his body got hit, causing him to stumble a few times before he got back into cover, leaned out, and took down the offending asshole.

Protection or not, getting hit fucking _hurt_.

Concern for Petrovsky, however, kept him from dilly-dallying too much. The sniper hadn't reported in since his breach, and that had Ford worried. Maybe the traitor had asked for backup inside the office, or perhaps a contingency plan was being executed?

Either way, they had to get up there as fast as possible.

Thankfully, the rest of the enemy combatants, seeing their numbers dwindle, didn't put up much more of a fight. While the die-hard fanatics fought until Buchanan and Bergstein finally put the last one down, a couple threw down their weapons and surrendered, claiming to be mercenaries being paid for bodyguard duty.

And, as always, _no contract_ was worth fighting crack military troops. Ever.

Thus liberated of his need to worry about his own safety, Ford climbed the stairs quickly and kicked open the door to the office, half-expecting walking into another firefight. To his amused surprise, however, he found himself lowering his rifle as he observed Petrovsky kneeling over the target, a kukri knife placed at the man's throat. The sniper had one of his knees placed right in the small of the man's back, while his non-knife-wielding hand held Clarkson's hands behind his back.

"You know..." Ford noted wryly as the rest of the team filtered into the room, only to halt at the sight. "...you could've warned us you had this under control."

Petrovsky shrugged unconcernedly.

Ford snorted. Fucking mute.

* * *

_**London, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, September 22, 2018...**_

"_AAAAAAAAH! GOD, WHY?! AAAAAAAH!_"

Hughes shivered as he relished Clarkson's screams from outside the interrogation room. After the man's arrest, he'd been brought back to the "Tartarus" Black Site in the middle of London, where a crew of rather vengeful interrogators had quite joyfully taken him off the military's hands.

Hughes was proud to say the man had felt no relief since then.

The realization made him pause for a second. Maybe he _was_ as psychotic as people seemed to think.

And just as fast, he shrugged unconcernedly. So what? He was loyal, he did his job, and his goals remained within reach. As far as he was concerned, he had it pretty good. A few psychological disorders were a measly price to pay for that.

And besides, if anything, he was more of a sadist. After all, despite having had Clarkson in hand for the past two days, they hadn't asked him a single question. The interrogators had just taken turns beating the crap out of him or trying out the latest toys.

Of course, this was all _after_ they informed him that his resistance — amusing as it had been when he first got handed over — was futile, as they had ways of tearing his mind apart for the information they needed.

Hughes relished that look of utter defeat _far_ more than he should have.

Then again, he had to admit he was taking out his frustrations towards the Mentor on Clarkson. And he had a _lot_ of pent-up frustration requiring release.

Still, the time had come for some answers. The King and the others in the Cabinet were likely waiting at the edge of their seats for whatever information Clarkson could give them on the Mentor. Stalling any further just for him to get his rocks off would land him in hot water.

Pressing a button at the side of the door, he watched the bulb atop of it flash green, just before the door slid open, revealing the interrogation room to him. As expected, the interrogators were apparently taking turns beating the crap out of the prisoner with their bare hands. Clarkson's face was a complete mess.

Unfortunately for him, they had ways around that.

Nodding to one of the interrogators — both of whom had stopped their little contest to see who could do more non-fatal damage to the prisoner — Hughes watched impassively as they force-fed the man a vial of red-brown liquid — a healing potion. To Clarkson's horror, his wounds receded and the pain faded away...merely a stopgap measure in the never-ending litany of pain he had endured since he got captured.

"Hello, Mister Clarkson," Hughes greeted the man as he stood directly in front of him, looking down at the bound traitor weakly trying to free himself from his restraints. "I hope you've been quite comfortable during your stay here."

Clarkson stayed defiantly silent, merely glaring up at his tormentor. Hughes chuckled at the sight.

"Oh, come now, Mister Clarkson. You're hardly the first man I've interrogated, or the first one to give me the silent treatment," he said before snapping his fingers. He enjoyed watching Clarkson flinch, probably thinking he'd be hit again for his insolence, only to realize that one of the interrogators had provided Hughes with his own chair. "I just want to have a chat."

More silence.

Hughes shrugged. "If you don't want to talk, that's fine. I'll do the talking," he stated calmly as he crossed his legs and rested his intertwined hands on his knee. "Mister Clarkson, you've been found guilty of associating with the terrorist known as the Mentor. You've been found guilty of knowing about each terrorist act that has occurred both here in the Northern Sun, as on the continent. Furthermore, you've been found guilty of being an accessory to every single murder resulting from these terrorist strikes. By all rights, you are now a dead man."

Hughes watched Clarkson spit to the side defiantly. Smart move. Had he spat on Hughes, there was little doubt the interrogators would've beaten him to within an inch of his life. Which was torture in and of itself, as they always refused to grant him the sweet release of death. The one time he'd tried to bite his tongue, he'd been stunned on the spot.

"Charming," Hughes said with some distaste. "In any case, I'm not here to offer you a plea bargain. I'm not here to offer you better accommodations. In fact, I can somewhat guarantee that you will probably never be a free man again, or survive into your old age."

Clarkson snorted. "Then why should I cooperate?" he asked evenly.

Hughes smiled. By engaging him directly in conversation, Clarkson had allowed himself to fall into Hughes' momentum. "Because how painless the rest of your days are, and how long it will take you to reach said end, _is_ up to you."

"I can handle pain," Clarkson snarled as he pulled against his restraints, to no avail.

"I don't doubt that," Hughes conceded. "But for how long, Mister Clarkson? Can you handle the sort of pain you've been receiving for days on end? To be brought to the brink of life and death over, and over, and over again, only to be pulled back? I can arrange that, you know. I can keep you alive for a _very_ long time," Hughes pointed out. "And I can make sure every waking hour of those days is another, newer nightmare."

Unlike Akulov, Hughes saw that Clarkson wasn't easily intimidated. And unlike that man, Clarkson had no apparent weak spots, psychologically speaking. He had no family, no close friends...nothing whose bodily integrity could cause him to turn on his employers.

So that left breaking the limits of his mind.

"And what if I cooperate?" Clarkson asked, sounding neither defeated, nor willing to actually go through with such a thing.

Hughes admired that. The traitor was testing Hughes' limits at the same time as his were being tested. That took balls. "Then maybe your execution gets accelerated, and you die a quick, somewhat painless death."

A snort. "At least you're honest."

"Why lie to dead men?" Hughes countered calmly. He was well aware that he was in no way following any standard psychological protocol for interrogations. He wasn't trying to connect with his prisoner, he wasn't trying to find mutual ground...in fact, he wasn't even throwing the man a rope.

Why? Because it wouldn't work. Not against Clarkson.

Clarkson was a believer, just like him. Even if their ideologies were diametrically opposite to each other, both of them believed so hard that trying to connect would be either futile, or end up with Hughes believing some sob story that had no grounding in reality.

Better to be honest, then.

"Fine."

Hughes raised an eyebrow. Had the man really just said that? "I beg your pardon?"

Clarkson shrugged, an evil smile forming on his face. "I said, fine," he repeated himself. "You want to know where the Mentor is? I can do that."

Hughes was instantly on alert, and not for any positive reason. "Why?" he asked calmly, eyes narrowed as he leaned forward.

Clarkson, for his part, just shrugged again and leaned back into his chair. "Because that's my role," he stated simply. "I've done what I was asked to do, and you've captured me, just as the Mentor predicted you would."

That was concerning, but not altogether unexpected. Even so, Hughes felt his caution increase. "And he wants us to find him?"

Clarkson smirked. "He sure does," he stated before chuckling. "You want him? No problem. Here it is: he's in Germany. Outskirts of Frankfurt, even. Go ahead, check."

Hughes was on his feet in an instant, his face the very picture of rage. Without saying another word, he stormed out of the room, ignoring Clarkson's cackling behind him as he went down the halls to his temporary office. There, he cleared everyone out before taking the nearest phone and launching it against the nearest wall, shattering the device into tiny pieces.

Germany.

Of course he'd be there. The one place the Northern Sun _could not_ reach at the moment. Even if the SIS was deployed to assassinate the Mentor, the very fact that Clarkson had been so willing to divulge the information meant that the man was expecting such a move...meaning he probably had protection, or some form of state-sponsored vigilance on himself that would expose any such attempts in a heartbeat.

Even worse, the ETO was still recovering from the war with France...and with the ETO suffering from domestic discontent, there wasn't enough popular support to go after the Germans in the first place. And if they tried to declare war anyway, then between the popular backlash they'd suffer, the ETO's probable intransigence due to the attacks, their own lack of military readiness, _and_ the likely intervention of the Russians...

In effect, the Mentor had put the Northern Sun in check.

Hughes slammed his fist into the nearest available wall, ignoring the wave of pain that action caused.

Fine. If the Mentor wanted to play games, then Hughes would deliver. He would take every move the Mentor had made, and he would _bury_ the fucker. Still ignoring the pain of his — now probably sprained — hand, he dug out his cellphone and speed dialed a particular number once more.

"It's me," he stated as soon as the call got picked up. "Timetable's sped up. Get everything ready for a month from now."

He snapped the cellphone shut then, and glared at the remains of the phone he'd flung. He vowed to teach the Mentor a painful lesson: that in games of shadows, _no one_ bested Albert Hughes.

* * *

_**Post-AN:** Nothing much to say here. Read and review, please! :D_

_MB_


	36. Chapter XXXVI: A Game of Shadows

_**AN: **Hello again, masses! Another chapter, courtesy of the vastly underpaid journalist known as Marquis Black. Anyone got any spare change?_

_Anyway, (lame) jokes aside, here's the next chapter! As you might have guessed, this is pretty Hughes/Mentor centric. And I don't mean in a shipping fashion (enjoy **that** mental image!)._

_Cheers,_

_Marquis Black_

* * *

_**The Hague, Kingdom of the Netherlands, October**__** 22, 2018**__**...**_

The writing had been on the wall, in hindsight.

Price stared out one of the windows overlooking the Embassy of the Northern Sun's courtyard with apprehension. Outside the embassy walls, a rather significant crowd had basically camped out and continued hurling abuse and random objects into the compound, decrying the Northern Sun's continued presence as provoking the Mentor's fury.

Blind sheep, all of them.

Still, Price had seen this sort of situation unfold before, and he rather disliked the ending. While he hadn't personally been there, he knew that a similar uprising in Iran had ended up with the American embassy being stormed, and a rather unfortunate hostage situation arising.

As the Northern Commander for this particular operation, however, he was determined not to allow such a thing to happen under his watch. There was a plan to be followed, and he was going to make damn sure it all went swimmingly.

"How's it coming, Commander?"

Price turned to see the ambassador walking towards him, looking as haggard as ever. The man, in his fifties, had spent years in the Netherlands working as the Northern Sun's chief negotiator, and had been instrumental in securing the Netherlands' approval in signing the European Treaty.

Now, years of his work had evaporated practically overnight, and he was finally being evicted from a country he had learned to love and respect.

Price resumed his steady vigilance over the Embassy courtyard. "Still sitting there, calling us every swear under heaven," the old soldier informed his charge. He spared the diplomat a glance then. "Are your staff ready yet, Ambassador?"

The man's shoulders rose and fell in a deep, almost defeated shrug. "They are working as fast as they can, Commander," the man stated calmly as he came to a stop by Price and joined him in watching the angry mob. "Most of our records may be digital, but the wards and other FCE tech has to be secured or destroyed. That takes time."

Price grunted in acquiescence. In the old days, he would've just ordered a bomb to be set off and be done with it. However, orders from the Foreign Office had been explicit: no unnecessary casualties, no unnecessary collateral damage. As far as they were concerned, the Northern Sun would one day return, and there was no need to damage the building any more than was absolutely necessary.

"Years of work..." the diplomat sighed despondently. "Finished."

And all because of a terrorist they couldn't yet catch.

Price grunted. "It's not over yet," he stated obstinately. "The Northern Sun isn't so easily cowed."

The Ambassador sighed again as he clasped his hands behind his back and looked out the window. To Price, he looked as though he really wanted to believe him, but years of living had blunted him against the harshness of reality.

"Perhaps not," the diplomat agreed with a tired glance at him. "But the ETO is finished. Even if our allies do not desert us, Her Majesty's vision of a federalized Empire is done."

"You give up quickly for an Ambassador," Price noted wryly as he leaned against the window, turning to face the man. "Are you sure you're on the right side of that wall?" he nudged his head towards the perimeter wall.

The Ambassador chuckled at his question, though Price didn't mind. People reacted differently to crisis from individual to individual. Some, like himself, refused to give up. Others, like the Ambassador, fell into a despondent depression.

"No, Commander, I just know a trick or two in politics," the man stated somewhat humbly. He brought up a hand to stroke his whitened beard. "We do not fight when we should, and we retreat when we are still strong. Her Majesty's enemies have outmanoeuvered her...simple as that."

Price shrugged. He had no idea what the man was babbling about. To be honest, he rather reviled politics in general, preferring the straightforward business of soldiering a thousand times over. It simplified things, took the complexity of life and removed it. Decisions were about living or dying, simple as that. You fought, you _might_ live. You don't, and you most likely died. Simple as that.

"A defeat today is a victory tomorrow," Price told the diplomat simply. What else was there to say?

The diplomat stayed quiet at that, much to Price's satisfaction. Talking to politicians usually ended up giving him a headache, and considering the tenuous situation at hand, he really didn't want to be that distracted. To be frank, he'd much rather the man had stayed in his office and just wallowed in self-pity there, and in so doing spare him the litany of despondence.

Well...at least he wasn't talking to the other soldiers in his team. The last thing he needed was for morale to drop before the evacuation was complete.

He turned his head back towards the window, looking at all the Dutch protesters camped outside the wall, still chanting their throats raw as their tirade against the Northern Sun continued.

"It's a wonder they still have the energy to keep going," the Ambassador noted curiously. "One would think they would get tired of shouting after the first ten minutes."

Price was about to crack a joke about that when his radio crackled to life. Sighing, he tapped his earbud and crossed his arms again as he continued leaning against the window. "This is Price."

"_Sir, the embassy staff are nearly done packing things up. We've already begun setting up Portkey areas for fast extraction._"

That was Eagle. Professional as always while on mission. Nothing like Ghost...thank god.

"Copy that, Eagle," Price answered. "What's our ETA on bringing down the wards, so we can get out of this shithole?" he ignored the Ambassador's sour look.

"_...Ghost says fifteen minutes, sir._"

Price nodded to himself. "Copy that. Keep me updated," he ordered before tapping off his radio transmitter. Looking back at the diplomat, he finally acknowledged the man's half-hearted glare.

"Was that really necessary?" the man asked, sounding a little annoyed.

Price smirked. "Everywhere but home is a shithole to me, sir," he stated wryly. "You fight in enough cities, and you start seeing every building, no matter how supposedly protected, as just another battlefield waiting to happen."

"How depressing."

Price chuckled, scratching at his stubbly chin. "Yeah, but it keeps my men and I on our toes. Just in case, yeah?"

His charge sighed despondently. "Under Her Majesty's vision, such caution would no longer have been needed," he lamented as he eyed the riot outside. "In a few years, we would have been able to disband a great amount of our troops, to let them enjoy a modicum of a normal life, after all these years of service."

Price could appreciate that, he supposed. After all, he'd been too old to fall under the HAVOC regimen, as with the rest of his team. They were old school soldiers, and they didn't have to worry about their warrior genes passing on to their children. They could ostensibly retire, life the good life, and die happy and content in their beds.

A nice thought, he supposed. A choice he'd turned his back on long ago.

"In my experience, Ambassador, there's always knife work to be done," Price told the man candidly. "Always some asshat or idiot with delusions of grandeur who's out to ruin everyone's day."

The Ambassador stayed silent. A wise move, really. Both men were old and set in their ways. The Ambassador clearly believed in the Queen's vision of a prosperous, peaceful future, while Price had been in too many wars not to be cynical about such things.

Price wondered, though. How might the world have been different if their King had never joined with regular people like him? Would they have still been stuck in this wartorn world, or would they be living in peace?

He frowned. He blamed the Ambassador for putting him in this frame of mind. Entertaining thoughts of "what if" served nobody, and only worked towards eroding one's convictions. He knew what he had to do, and regardless of the diplomat's feelings, he would get it done

He tapped his earbud. Surely his team was ready by now? "This is Price. Status report." he ordered curtly.

"_All set, sir. Was just about to call it in,_" Eagle answered. "_We're ready to proceed once you get the Ambassador in the lobby._"

Price nodded to himself. "Solid copy. On our way there."

The diplomat looked at him tiredly as the soldier tapped off his comm bead. "I suppose preparations are ready, then?" he asked. If anything the man seemed older than before, the full weight of the Northern Sun's retreat finally hitting him.

Price nodded and motioned for him to go first. "After you, Ambassador. They're waiting in the lobby."

The man nodded and started his trek down the hall. Meanwhile, Price glanced through the window at the rioting crowd outside and nodded to himself. Yes, this was for the best. As he moved to follow the Ambassador, he spotted the crowd getting a little more antsy outside the gates.

"I will miss this place," the Ambassador noted sadly as he eyed the portraits, paintings, and vases that remained behind, after all the really valuable stuff had been evacuated. "This was...home."

"All good things come to an end, sir," Price stated evenly as he escorted the man down the hallway. "In my experience, it's best not to get attached to material things."

The man chuckled as they reached the doors to the second floor access to the lobby. In grandiose style, the Northern Embassy's lobby had a large staircase that dominated the middle and back of the room, leading up to the narrow second-floor pathways to the various offices. It had been designed to act as both an aesthetic reminder of the Northern Sun's power, and an appropriate defensive location if they ever got stormed...like they were in danger of being now.

The two soldiers at the doors saluted him and Price before opening the doors and letting them through. Price returned the salute with a slow nod. "Keep an eye on the windows. If anything happens, let us know," he ordered.

"Yes, sir!" both men chorused as Price and the diplomat walked by and into the narrow, overhead corridor that gave them a spectacular view of the lobby's tiled, marble floor, organized in such a way as to depict the Northern Sun's star motif just before one reached the staircase.

"Forty years of service..." the Ambassador reminisced sadly as he and Price otherwise walked in companionable silence. "Under the United Kingdom, the Northern Territories, and now the Northern Sun. I wonder...how will history judge a man as I?" he asked aloud.

"Such considerations are beyond my concerns, Ambassador," Price replied honestly. "Though I would imagine they would say you were a survivor and an effective diplomat."

The man chuckled again as they reached the top of the marble staircase, finally looking down at the empty lobby. "You are kind to say so, Commander," the man stated. "And here we are at last."

Price nodded. "Yes."

The Ambassador again rose his shoulders and dropped them with a heavy sigh. "Did I waste my years playing the diplomatic game, Commander?" he asked.

Price was silent. The man chuckled again as he walked down the stairs, silently accompanied by his babysitter. "Are you nervous, Commander?"

"No, sir."

"Good," the diplomat stated firmly. "Stay true to your convictions. Be firm in your beliefs. Even though my work is undone here, I remain true to the ideals held by Her Majesty, and the ideal of our King's Northern Sun."

They reached the bottom of the staircase. The Ambassador looked up at the ceiling then, smiling. "And I still don't have your answer, Commander. Have I wasted my time?"

Price finally shook his head, though the man felt it, rather than saw it. "No time given up for the cause is wasted, sir," he stated firmly.

The Ambassador chuckled. "That sounds like a quote. Who said that?" he asked curiously.

Price shook his head again. "Those were my thoughts, sir," he answered calmly as he tapped his earbud. "Do it."

"_Copy that._" came the prompt answer.

Outside the closed doors that led to the courtyard, he heard the mob grow even more frenzied, despite their distance. Almost immediately, the comm channel was flooded with cries of alarm. Apparently, three men had climbed over the perimeter wall and were charging the front of the building. Unfortunately, standing orders were to not shoot civilians, so the troops that were on guard were unsure how to proceed.

Price did. "Everyone fall back to the evacuation point! We're getting out of here before it gets any worse!" he stated firmly, even as he noticed Eagle and Ghost locking the doors leading deeper into the building. Now, no one would inadvertently interfere. Then, to continue the charade, he heard his insiders in the Diplomatic Guard start their act.

"_Wait, where's the Ambassador?!_"

"_Holy crap, I think he went back to talk to the rioters!_" another one answered. "_We have to go help him!_"

That was his cue. Price tapped his earpiece calmly. "This is Commander Price. The Ambassador has locked all the doors to the lobby. We are unable to get to him in time. Stay on mission; we have to get the rest of the staff out!" he barked.

"Did Hughes send a message, Commander?" the diplomat asked calmly as he listened to the grudging agreement of the Diplomatic Guard, standing atop the marble star motif.

As the front doors shuddered, Price stared at the man's back silently for a moment before looking away. In a way, he felt some shame for what was going to happen. "He said, 'your family will be taken care of, as promised.'" he relayed.

"What else?" the diplomat asked calmly as the doors burst open, revealing three men in dark clothing, knives in hand, looking about ready to charge them.

"The martyr will light the fire that will bring about the Empire," Price said stoically, even as the three men gave a cry and charged. He merely turned away and made his way to the stairs.

As he heard the Ambassador grunt in pain as the first knife plunged into him, Price also heard him say one last thing before his grunts increased in frequency, as his attackers knifed him again, and again.

"Good."

On that day, the rioting mob outside the Northern Embassy broke through the gate, spurred on by three anonymous men who'd braved the first charge, and stormed the embassy. By the time the dust had settled, the Ambassador of the Northern Sun was found murdered, slogans of Mentor worship defacing the star motif on the bloodied, marble floor.

The next day, Northern polls recorded a landslide of support for the hunt for the Mentor.

* * *

_**London, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, October 28, 2018...**_

"A single death, and we have recovered our footing."

Hughes watched his staff patiently as he stood atop the raised dais at the front of the room, overlooking his center of operations. Though, truthfully, saying it was "his" was something of a misnomer.

As the Advisor to the King, he had no official responsibilities or power. Legally speaking, any power or authority he had was directly derived from the King's orders. Hierarchically speaking, he answered to no one but the King, and Parliament had little to no oversight over his operations. As far as the law was concerned, Hughes was merely the devil on the King's shoulder, nothing more, nothing less.

In practice, however, his power was as unfettered as the King wished it so. And right now? The King wanted him off his leash.

A fortunate thing, too, as he had quickly set out to fix the headache-inducing problem that had become the Mentor. While his real name still eluded him, Hughes had vowed to see the man dead for his actions against the Northern Sun, and the King had known that a vow from Hughes was as reliable as one could get.

It also helped that Hughes had felt personally affronted by the Mentor.

His move to attack the Northern allies had been a stroke of genius. Not just because it caused a breach of trust between the Northern Sun and the ETO, but also because it had very nearly neutralized him. Not physically, of course, but politically.

The Mentor, he had to admit, had somehow managed to get a decent grasp on court politics. By attacking the ETO, but _not,_ simultaneously, the Northern Sun, he had brought the question outside of Hughes' usual sphere of influence and right into the Queen's faction's stomping grounds. Anything that had to do with foreign relations and nation building were practically monopolized by the Foreign Office, and as such, the Queen's faction. Had the attacks remained localized to the Northern Sun, Hughes could've run rampant without significant political reprisals.

Unfortunately, the Mentor had planned for this, apparently; thus, his move against the ETO.

There was nothing worse for someone of his position than to be sidelined. If the Queen and her faction had pushed hard enough, he had little doubts that the fragile truce between their factions would've broken and he, as the interloper, would've suffered dearly. The power and authority he wielded, after all, were directly correlated to the King's trust in him. If he was seen as out of control, said trust would evaporate, and he would've suddenly found himself out in the cold.

Had it been anyone else, Hughes' might've wanted to shake his hand for a ploy well executed. As it was, all it did was make him want to hang the Mentor from the nearest lamppost and use him as a personal piñata.

But while the Mentor had already struck several major victories in this shadow war of theirs, Hughes was determined to avoid playing catch-up and simply overtake his opponent.

"A single death, and we have regained our footing," he repeated himself as he stood upright, his hands lightly grasped behind his back as he stood sideways to his audience, sweeping his gaze over his subordinates. "The Mentor sought to destabilize our great nation from within, and without. With the terror attacks, he would sow discord against our government amongst our people."

He gestured towards the nearest screen where the map of Europe was displayed. "With mere threats, backed with a little violence, he subjugates our allies and turns them against us. He is, in many ways, like the Afghans, when they fought the Soviets for their independence."

He then brought back his extended hand and kept only his index finger uncurled as he pointed up. "But there is one thing he has vastly underestimated," he lectured. "Our resilience. Our devotion to the imperial cause. He thinks us bureaucrats and salarymen, driven by base necessities and daily life concerns. He thinks his opponent will break with the slightest pressure."

He swept his hand out. "He is wrong!" he stated firmly. "Ambassador Gupta showed the full measure of his devotion to the cause! He is a shining example of what we must all be ready to do in order to support His Majesty's vision of a peaceful, united European Empire!" he continued, his voice rising in volume as he grew more passionate. "With the gift of his life, Ambassador Gupta has galvanized our people, and reminded them, and our Dutch allies, that we will _not_ be cowed by terrorist cowards!"

As he spoke, the fifteen screens hanging from the ceiling behind him switched pictures to show either statistical reports on popular support or news broadcasts depicting large pro-Northern rallies.

"This war is only starting, ladies and gentlemen," he said as he brought forth his gesturing hand and pointed at his subordinates. "Every one of you may be called upon to follow Ambassador Gupta's example. Or, perhaps not. Whatever your eventual fate, I have chosen all of you for this great war of shadows to help me bring about the defeat of this most villainous foe of ours!"

His pointing hand slowly rearranged itself into a gesture of offering his hand to the audience. "Can I count on you to serve?" he asked.

A deafening roar of approval answered him, prompting a small, genuine smile as he watched his subordinates — each picked for their fanatic loyalty to the Northern Sun — cried out their support.

Most of what he'd said was utter rubbish, of course. He understood enough of the Mentor to know that the man was hardly overconfident or as naïve to think that the Northern Sun would take his ballsy challenge lying down. If anything, Hughes was rather expecting the man — and it was just pure conjecture to assume he was a man, to begin with — to begin the next phase of his plan sometime soon.

But morale was something he could not disregard. As loyal as they were to the kingdom, Hughes had to be sure that the people who worked under him were also optimistic about their chances, as that would inspire them to put genuine enthusiasm into their work. If he got lucky, it would even get a few to agree to play the part if he ever decided to do a repeat of his staged murder ploy.

He regretted having had to kill the Director of Communications' father, to be honest. Amy Gupta was a kind individual with a strong patriotic streak, and her father had been a loyal servant of the Crown. Unfortunately, he needed a body of some renown with a reputation for honest work to put at the Mentor's feet, and Gupta's father had fit the bill.

At least he'd died a hero and a martyr. As far as government officials went, that was one of the best ways to go — right after a peaceful retirement and dying in one's sleep.

He would have to recommend the man for a posthumous honor...maybe a peerage of some kind. His daughter would certainly appreciate the thought, and it would earn him some point with the Queen's faction, to try and amend their strained relations.

He had no illusions regarding the Queen's opinion of him. As far as he knew, she utterly despised him for his ruthlessness, callous disregard for human rights, and for having convinced the King to enact many policies of questionable — if not outright utter disregard for — morality.

At the same time, however, he knew the Queen understood his necessity, just as he understood hers. He wasn't some utterly deranged psychopath, and she wasn't some naïve hippy. She'd greenlit SUCKERPUNCH, after all, and had developed, or helped develop, some of the Northern Sun's most powerful weapons. She, along with her team, had also worked out the HAVOC program, which certainly crossed right into questionable morality as well. She was no saint at all.

But just as he was necessary to the survival of the realm, so was she. With his methods, the Northern Sun grew more powerful, true, but it also lost much of its righteous appeal. That was where she came in. The Queen's faction, being more at ease with nation building and alliance making, served well to rebuild the very areas he'd devastated and turn their once-enemies into allies.

Aside from killing a few irascible opponents to the ETO, in fact, it had been the Queen and her followers — including the the Duke of Warwick — who'd negotiated and built the European Treaty Organization, giving him the time to plant his spies and assassins and lay the foundations for the coming Empire.

A lesser man would've simply grown fed up with her and had her killed. Maybe blamed it on the Germans, or Russians to start a war. Maybe even used her untimely demise to marry the King to another royal of great importance.

Ridiculous, and political suicide.

The Queen, and their daughter, was the only thing keeping the King from going full-out absolute monarch on his nation. Harry had never much liked the political process, and found it too easily corruptible. To his mind, an enlightened monarch vastly outweighed the benefits of the parliamentary process. Both the Queen and he disagreed, and that kept their King from crossing one line he never should.

He eyed his subordinates as they dispersed and returned to work. He had inspired them enough for one day, and he had his own plans to put into motion. The Mentor was still out there, and with his latest move, the Northern Sun's stability had been assured. The brutal murder of the Ambassador would ensure that no serious discussion of compromise or surrender would ever take root, and Hughes would never have to worry about the Court turning against him.

Even the Queen would never forgive the brutal slaying of one of her friends.

Smiling up at the screens of data behind him, his thoughts turned to his unseen adversary. The Mentor had to know the impact this move would have, and Hughes doubted the Mentor would take it lying down.

Not that Hughes was just going to wait about and let the Mentor wreck years of work, however. Before the insurgent had time to react, Hughes would secure another pawn from the game.

It was time for his next step.

* * *

_**Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, October 30, 2018...**_

Of all the things Harry had expected Hughes to broach, a wedding had never truthfully crossed his mind.

Ever.

In fact, the very notion that it was, in fact, _Hughes_ who'd brought it up certainly made him feel wary...if not a little creeped out. After all, this was the very same Hughes who'd convinced him to order the quasi-genocide of an entire people; and here he was, trying to push for a marriage that, arguably, he couldn't see his sister disapproving of.

"The idea certainly has merit, Albert, but what on earth brought this on?" he asked cautiously as he leaned back into his chair, eyeing the Advisor as though he were a loose, feral tiger. Not an unkind or inaccurate comparison, truthfully.

Hughes smiled, somehow managing to make this meeting even more creepy than it had been previously. And _that_ was saying something. "I am merely following your instructions, Your Majesty," the man said calmly. "You, and Her Majesty, asked me to attempt a balance between the hunt for the Mentor and the protection of our allies. I can see no better way of ensuring the latter for one of our most critical allies than the plan I just suggested."

Harry instinctively eyed the document outlining Hughes' proposal that sat on his desk. Honestly, he had no idea why Hughes had decided to print out such a thing, when he could've just told him directly. Or sent it via e-mail. Or any other, numerous ways of communicating the scheme.

What the hell was the Advisor playing at?

Still, on the flip side, the proposal was, as stated before, a good one. He saw no reason Isabella would protest, and he was fairly sure that thanks to that, he would not likely spend any night sleeping on the couch. Or in his office.

Or hiding from his mother.

"You've always been a staunch opponent to the idea of _including_ our allies as partners, Albert," Harry pointed out as he handled the document warily. "And you understand that, by carrying this through, Spain will essentially have to be treated as an equal partner."

Hughes did seem a little uncomfortable with that, Harry noted amusedly, but championed on and shrugged as if without a care. "As far as allies go, I can...stomach the idea, sire."

_Bull._

_Shit._

Still, Harry had to admit that, considering Hughes' legendary dislike for alliances, it was quite big of him that he was willing to take one for the team, so to speak. And yes, the turn of phrase did apply here, because considering that the proposal called for Isabella to marry the very man she was seeing at the moment, he didn't really think _anyone_ was sacrificing anything...except Hughes.

"You're also aware that this means that dethroning the King of Spain will be nigh impossible, right?" Harry pressed, still wondering what on earth had gotten into his Advisor. Had he turned over a new leaf? Was he high on something? Maybe a trip to the Royal Psychiatrist was in order...heavens knew _he_ avoided the woman like the plague! Might as well have _someone_ make use of her abilities.

Hughes' thin smile returned in full force. Instinctively, Harry knew he was going to regret asking him that question. "On the contrary, Your Majesty," he said calmly, shifting a bit to remain comfortable. "With your sister at the future King's side, it should be quite simple to have her convince him to reject his throne...in the name of the Empire to come."

And _there_ it was. Harry pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. Of _course_ Hughes's "inconsiderate jackass tendencies," as Isabella had put it during one particularly lively family dinner, hadn't gone away. They were still there...but he was getting smarter about letting people know his intentions.

For a brief moment, the thought actually worried Harry. It just as quickly left his mind, however, upon remembering that Hughes had worked too hard to secure Harry and Katerina's position in power to likely revolt.

He sighed. He was way overthinking this. Hughes was still Hughes, and this proposal, for some reason, played well into his plans for the Empire. Thankfully, his plans seemed to fall well within his own goals.

"Fine," he stated finally, bringing out a pen and signing his name at the bottom in a sign of endorsement. He then brought out a bit of hot wax, poured it next to his signature, and pressed a nearby stamp into it, marking it with the sun motif of his Kingdom. Now it was legitimized. With a snap, the wax cooled and Harry passed the document back to Hughes. "You have my backing, but _you're_ going to be the one to inform Isabella about this. If she says no, the marriage is _off_. Understood?" he asked sternly. He rather doubted his sister would refuse, but it had to be said regardless. He had a feeling that if he didn't, Hughes would find a way to force it through.

Hughes nodded solemnly as he respectfully took the document back into his possession, glad to have come out of this particular session rather successful. The King valued his sister's happiness quite highly, so there'd always been an element of risk in proposing a political marriage...regardless of whether or not said sister loved, or even just liked the man she was seeing.

"I understand, sire."

Harry eyed his dangerous subordinate for a moment before nodding. He hoped so. The last thing he needed was for his family to start coming apart at the seams because of this.

* * *

_**Unknown Location, Germany, November 5, 2018...**_

Riddle had to admit, this Muggle Hughes was a pain his ass.

Not that he wasn't enjoying the _tête a tête_ they were both locked in, but his patience _did_ have a rather low limit...and the news article he was reading in his rather manorly home wasn't helping in keeping it down.

A political marriage between the Northern Sun and Spain.

He snorted, torn between being angry and impressed. It was a beautiful move, really. Taking advantage of the already present relationship between Potter's sister and the future King of Spain and basically fast-forwarding it to marriage would ensure that the two largest countries of the ETO would never part ways now, unless something cataclysmic happened.

And he was no fool; he knew the Muggle Hughes had seen its additional benefit of ensuring Spain's support for the coming Empire he knew the Northern Sun was trying hard to create. His followers might not see it, but to him, who shared the Northern King's ambition, the writing on the wall was plain as day.

He pondered his options. Should he try to stop this marriage? Maybe assassinate the bride and groom? After a few seconds of dwelling on that possibility, he rejected the idea. All it would do is galvanize the ETO even more against him. He _knew_ that Hughes had framed him and his followers for Ambassador Patil's murder, but due to his status as a terrorist, he couldn't really come out and complain about it due to his credibility being non-existent.

Plus, he had to admit, it was another stunning move from his unseen opponent. He hadn't thought the man so willing to sacrifice members of his own team for the greater picture, but apparently _that_ had been naïve.

So what could he do? Maybe riling up the Ultranationalists in Spain again would help to knock them out of the picture for now. He needed the Sun isolated, after all, and he couldn't do that while they were still being backed by the second-largest contributor to the ETO.

On the other hand, the Ultranationalists were as much a pain his ass as they were in Spain's. They were much like the Muggle's he'd railed about in his younger years; bigoted, short-sighted, incapable of accepting people different than themselves. No...propping them up would just come back to bite him in the ass in the long run, no matter how many contingencies he tried to implement to keep them in line.

He sighed as he flipped the page of his newspaper, glad he'd taken the time to learn German back when he'd been hunting for Grindelwald. While the idea of claiming the Elder Wand had been an attractive notion before he'd decided on his new path, it no longer held the luster it once did. Certainly, it was a tool of immense power, but his main rival for absolute power, the King of the Northern Sun, was just as powerful without the need of it. Therefore, he let it lie in Dumbledore's casket.

Let some other boob try his hand at it. It seemed to kill off its owners fast enough, anyway.

The sound of soft footfalls on his wooden panel floor caught his attention, and he watched quietly from the corner of his eye as a young woman wearing a conservative maid's outfit walked in, platter in both hands with a large, silver jug and a matching tea cup. He hadn't realized it was tea time yet. Pondering how best to ruin the Northern Sun must've made him lose track of time.

He remained silent as the maid performed her duties and bowed to him as she offered him the tea cup on it's saucer. Without saying a word of acknowledgement — which she probably wasn't expecting, anyway — he took the little plate and placed it on the end table next to him. It was steaming, and he rather wanted to avoid burning his mouth again.

"You're dismissed," he stated smoothly as he returned to his reading. There was no real need to waste more than a few words on riffraff, after all.

The maid bowed and silently went away, tray in hand. For a moment, he glanced back at her and watched her go.

A rather irritating side effect had cropped out of regaining a normal human body, he'd found out a few months after his "resurrection." That was the return of his normal, human urges, which he'd thought he'd long since repressed, as a superior being was tied down to no base desires. Getting rid of such weaknesses had been one of the many benefits of the many rituals he'd performed to enhance himself back then, but it had come at the cost of basically losing his human appearance.

As he rather required a charming, good looking façade right now, it was therefore inadvisable for him to immediately attempt these once more. However, that now meant his body was treacherously demanding things from him that he rather felt were beneath him.

Hiring a maid had been a bad idea, in hindsight. _Especially_ allowing one of his followers to do it for him. Assuming the "Great Mentor" wished to surround himself with beautiful things — considering the grandeur of his manor — said follower had apparently decided that he needed a beautiful maid, for one reason or another.

Riddle had _not_ been pleased.

Said follower had since "disappeared" while "on his way" to "a mission" in "Ireland."

In other words, he was providing fresh fertilizer to his vegetable garden out back.

However, thinking of the dead man had no effect on his problem, made conspicuously more annoying due to the fact that his urges often worked to cloud his mind until he sated them. He used to be able to work for _hours_ without need for much rest, nutrition, or company. These days, he was relegated to an, at most, 12-hour work schedule, with numerous breaks for eating or using the loo as needed.

_It pissed him off_.

In a way, getting rid of this human shell was one of the main reasons he worked so hard to see the Northern Sun fall as quickly as possible. Then he wouldn't have to hold back and his power alone would force the masses to accept his newer, more efficient and powerful persona.

He grunted to himself irritably. The maid had yet to leave his mind's eye. Perhaps it was time to get rid of her?

He eyed the steaming tea cup next to him. Perhaps not; she did make exquisite tea, and while he was disappointed to note that his necessity for eating had meant the return of some habits — habits being a terrible idea — he was rather glad for the return of his love for tea.

He sighed as he lay his head back against his chair and looked up. Nothing for it, then. He wouldn't be able to concentrate until he got this out of his system.

Fortunately, that didn't mean he had to be _nice_ about this.

About an hour later, Riddle was back in his seat, having enjoyed a nice post-coital shower, rather glad to have been done with the whole thing. As usual, the poor maid would probably require some time off to recuperate from her injuries, but otherwise, everything was back to normal. For now.

He took some solace in knowing that had Bellatrix been alive, this whole shameful episode would've probably caused her to have another psychotic break out of pure jealousy. He had _so_ enjoy refusing her advances as brutally and painfully as possible back then. It _almost_ made him miss her.

_Almost_.

With his mind clear, however, he could return to beating his unseen nemesis again, eager as he was to finally return to power, after all this time. And, as he'd been thoroughly unleashing his pent-up needs and anger on the maid, he'd gotten a rather good idea.

He had to avoid letting the Northern Sun expand its cadre of secure nations. Its own populace and the Spanish were now effectively taken out of the game by Hughes' last few moves, which meant that the BENELUX and the Austrians were still on the fence. Removing the BENELUX from the ETO was a difficult thing to achieve, however, as these countries had become rather economically integrated with the Northern Sun.

On the other hand, they were also much more of a democracy than Spain and the Northern Sun, which meant that the public's fear of his attacks was helping to convince them to distance themselves.

That left Austria.

Unlike the BENELUX, Austria was comparatively far away from the Northern Sun, and had Germany blocking territorial access between them and the rest of the ETO. As the sole republic of the group, it also had to deal with an intimidated electorate whose only real attachment to the ETO was the promise of free trade laws and the allies they needed to keep other nations at bay. Originally, this had been done with France in mind, but with the Germans' recent campaign against the ETO, the Austrians had shifted their fears from the defunct French Republic to their German neighbours.

The idea that they might be attacked wasn't crazy, either. Anschluss had proven Germany's belief that Austria was basically a broken-off province of theirs.

With the ETO, and particularly the Northern Sun, behind them, the Austrians had been able to breathe easily, however. They knew that if the Germans attacked, the ETO would step in immediately. That brought him to his idea.

He already had numerous operatives in Austria, in part due to his standing deal with the Germans, for which he got a paltry, under-the-table pension. It wouldn't be a stretch to have them begin planting the idea amongst the populace that due to their distance and difficult access, the Northern Sun and the ETO would be unwilling to help them.

Fear, in turn, could be easily manipulated into anger. Anger, which he could use to perhaps ensure that Austria became the first ETO member nation to fall to his current machinations.

He took a sip of his tea and grimaced. It was cold, now. Where was that useless maid?

Oh. Right.

With a sigh, he waved his hand and the liquid was gone, eliminating the temptation to drink it again.

He resumed his reading of the newspaper, already thinking of how best to implement his plan. It had to be subtle — enough so that Hughes would think whatever happened was just a result of the growing instability within the ETO. However, he rather doubted that his minions could pull that off. Hughes had shown an incredible attention to the greater picture, and had apparently connected the dots to suss out his next move. Any wrong moves by his operatives, and the man would be on it like a crow goes after shiny objects.

Riddle actually found himself feeling somewhat jealous of Potter, to his surprise. The man, who by all indications was something of a white knight in muddied armour, had somehow managed to obtain the services of a man as twisted and yet brilliant and fiercely loyal as Albert Hughes, whereas the most Riddle had been able to obtain during his lifetime were half-hearted hacks and brainless followers. Add to that his incredibly talented generals, his brilliant wife, and a cooperative government...

Yes, Riddle was _definitely_ jealous of Potter.

Which made the fact that he would one day steal everything from the man _that much _sweeter.

* * *

_**Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, November 20, 2018...**_

Hughes had to admit...the Mentor worked _fast_.

In another lightning strike, he'd somehow managed to strike at _another_ soft underbelly of the ETO. This time, Austria.

"It was fortunate you were in the country when it happened, Field Marshal," he said smoothly as he stood to one side of his King's chair, while Speirs and Curtis sat opposite to them. "Your ability to marshal the Embassy's staff to rescue civilians was quite inspired."

Speirs spat angrily, and Hughes made a silent note to get the cleaning staff in here as soon as they left. "Inspired? It was sheer dumb luck," he grumbled as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Those backstabbing bastards almost gutted us all!"

Curtis frowned as she regarded Harry, who looked as pained as she felt over the incident. "This can't go unanswered...sire," she hesitated only momentarily at his form of address, much more used to calling him White or Potter. Despite years under his service, she still insisted on treating him like an equal, except when the situation got serious and the hierarchy needed establishing. "Thirty of our citizens, dead! And those idiots think we'll just let bygones be bygones?!"

Harry palmed his face in frustration. Both of his top military officials were right, of course. Even Joshua and Elicia, both of whom had been prime supporters of Austria's entry into the ETO, had been infuriated by the Austrians' tepid reaction to the riots that had broken out rather quickly throughout the country.

In a rather rare show of unity, even _they_ had supported Hughes' recommendation for the Embassy and their citizens to be evacuated from the country.

"Retaliating would be unwise," Hughes stated coolly then, much to everyone present's surprise. Hughes was notorious for believing that blood had to be repaid in kind; why on earth would he request that they back down?!

Harry, for his part, was additionally alarmed because his Advisor had begun making choices that appeared to be rather...inconsistent with his well-known personality. When the terrorists had struck in the Northern Sun, he'd pushed for their immediate executions. When they'd caught the mastermind in Paris, he'd taken his time in torturing the fellow before having him executed.

And now, here he was, advocating _restraint_.

What the _hell_?

"Explain," Harry ordered immediately.

Hughes bowed his head in acquiescence. "As distant as Austria is to the ETO, it is hardly capable of orchestrating this sort of coordinated attack on our citizens. Its government is very much aware that their continued national integrity relies chiefly on the ETO's military might. Or, more specifically, ours."

Curtis and Speirs nodded along in agreement, while Harry just stayed silent and contemplated his Advisor.

"There is no logical motive for them to do this, therefore we cannot rule out third party interference," Hughes added.

"The Mentor, you mean," Speirs grunted gruffly.

Hughes nodded his head at him. "Quite. He has proven himself quite the versatile enemy, and this fits his overall plan to alienate the ETO members from the Northern Sun. By retaliating, we would not only achieve this goal for him, but also risk losing the BENELUX outright."

He was glad to see that all three of his audience nodded along, easily following him. "What are you proposing, then?" Harry asked with a frown.

He raised a flat hand and held it up to his chest. "Respectfully, I ask that we fully evacuate Austria. The BENELUX would understand this move, considering the danger posed to our citizens in Austria at the moment, while the lack of our presence may force the Mentor to show his goal prematurely."

Harry nodded in understanding before eyeing Curtis and Speirs. "Any objections?" he asked.

To Hughes' relief — he didn't want to have to debate the two most high-ranking officials in the military this time around — both of them nodded at the suggestion.

"I admit," Curtis said. "Not having to worry about Austria will help a lot right now. We've been hearing rumors of a possible uprising in France recently. We need our military strength concentrated on putting that down, if it happens."

Another move of the Mentor, no doubt. Hughes had seen that move coming a mile away, however. It was just common sense to try and rile up a conquered populace to start an uprising.

Speirs frowned, however. "If that were all we have to worry about, my job wouldn't be so annoying," he grumbled, nudging his head towards a red folder on Harry's desk, courtesy of the Foreign Office. Obviously, he'd recognized it. "Those shifty NAR bastards and their Sicilian counterparts are starting to act up, too."

_That_, however, Hughes wasn't as sure if it was the Mentor's influence or not. The Northern Alpine Republic and the Sicilian Republic were both tenuous friends of the Northern Sun, at best. At worst, they were enemies who just barely tolerated each other. While it was plausible, and easily feasible, for the Mentor to turn them against the Northern Sun, one couldn't discount the possibility that this was their own initiative.

Fortunately, he'd had the presence of mind to talk to Warwick on the subject, and the man had agreed to go through with his suggestion. Mostly because he'd had the same idea. Let it never be said that the Foreign Minister wasn't a shrewd man.

It almost made him feel guilty for then going behind his back and co-opting the plan for his own strategy.

"I believe His Grace, the Duke of Warwick, is already on that situation," Hughes interjected before another discussion could erupt.

Again, the King's suspicious gaze fell on him. As far as Harry knew, Hughes was _never_ this willing to cooperate with others, or hold back. There was something he wasn't telling anyone — and he knew that for a fact, as he'd had Astoria look into this — and while he was sure of the man's loyalty, he hated being kept in the dark.

Neither military official, however, seemed too troubled by his actions, instead focusing on the fact that he'd managed to possibly head off a diplomatic and military nightmare.

"That's good," Speirs said evenly, rather glad to be rid of the headache that was dealing with the NAR and Sicilian Republic. Now he could focus on getting rid of the French insurrectionists. "We can hardly afford to split our attention between so many possible enemies. My forces should be able to put down any uprising, but fighting a conventional war _and_ an uprising at the same time would stretch us thin and leave us too open."

The Advisor said nothing as he watched his King nod in agreement, along with the Minister for Defence. He'd had his doubts regarding Speirs, mostly due to his reluctance to fight other Britons during the Civil War, but he'd since retracted that opinion. The man was smart, even if those smarts remained firmly planted in the military side of life, and despite his reservations, his surprise attack on London had ended the Civil War far earlier than their initial projections had suggested.

It also helped that, not being an utter warmongering psychopath, he made for a likeable figure to head the military.

He blinked as he realized that the meeting was wrapping up, though he still felt his monarch's eyes on him, carefully observing him. Honestly, he was rather glad for it, as it meant he wasn't serving some delegating, lazy fop. The King would likely never let up on watching him, or anyone else who caught his attention, if only to better understand their goals.

And as thorough as the SIS was in investigation people, he had the distinct feeling that the King's bodyguards would put many agents to shame. He knew Astoria, for instance, would likely burn through a village just to get her master a single name.

And if Josefina was directly asked by Harry to do so, he had no doubts she'd personally eliminate the entire SIS. Or rather, would at least die trying to do so.

Hughes snorted. How was it that the King was capable of drawing such exceptional female talents to his side? Even the Queen was outstanding in her own right, for goodness' sake!

Then again, that had always been the cornerstone of their kingdom — talent. Everyone Harry had brought into his circle of friends and direct subordinates possessed above average skill in some field or another. Speirs was a solid tactician and a general who could be trusted with running the army efficiently, pragmatically, and loyally. Curtis was a pragmatic technocrat, who was both adept at field command and administration. Warwick's talent at media manipulation was only bested by his skill at weaving through the political web that made up the ETO's governing system.

Hell, Hughes was sure even _he_ had been befriended by Harry specifically for his skills!

Not that he felt insulted by that realization. Quite the contrary; it made him admire the King all the more! The man had often expressed his admiration for the ancient warrior-kings, and none more than the greatest conquerors of their times. It was only logical, then, that he would seek to emulate them by surrounding himself with men and women of talent. Had anyone faltered on the path, Hughes was sure they would've found themselves quite abandoned.

Such was the path of a warlord, he supposed.

"There you are."

Hughes snapped out of his musings to find Josefina waiting for him, leaning against the hallway's wall. Uncrossing her arms and letting them fall loosely at her sides, she gave him a scrutinizing look before nudging her head towards the exit. Clearly, she had something to say in private.

Or rather, outside, where the hustle and bustle made it easier to conceal their conversation amongst the city's noise. That, and a few well placed interference gadgets. One never knew when the enemy spies came out to play, after all.

"Hello to you as well, Josefina," he greeted her dryly as they stopped near the palace gates, Josefina having discreetly activated a jammer device in her pocket. "How are you? How have you been? Eating well, I hope?"

The young woman just rolled her eyes at his sarcasm. "We both know you're beyond such niceties, Hughes," she said flatly as she crossed her arms under her chest again.

"On the contrary," Hughes answered with a slight smile. "I may not have raised you the way the King has, but I still feel _some_ responsibility for your welfare, having aided in your rescue and all."

Again, she rolled her eyes. "Right. And the Mentor is really a rainbow colored unicorn who farts glitter."

"Language, young lady."

Josefina actually winced at the reprimand. Unlike most other adults, Hughes had no need to actually sound angry to make her understand his displeasure. A simple, calm chastisement was ten times worse when it came from the man who basically masterminded the near-extinction of an entire culture.

"W-Whatever," she said gruffly, hating that she'd actually _stuttered_ for a moment. "Xeno sent me. It's about France."

Hughes' eyes flashed over to the palace before returning his gaze onto Josefina. "I'm aware of the insurrection being plotted," he informed her. "Marshal Speirs mentioned it in our meeting."

Josefina frowned. "It's not just being plotted, Hughes; it's happening. Right now." she informed him grimly. "Our reports say there's been a significant uprising in Marseilles and Cannes, and we're worried it's going to spread _really_ fast."

Hughes narrowed his eyes at her. That was actually somewhat distressing to hear. "Has Marshal Speirs been informed?" he asked calmly. The Mentor had once again sped up his timetable, much to his ire. While his goals were becoming clearer by the day, the Mentor's erratic schedule was making it hard to predict _when_ the next move would occur.

"There's a report waiting for him in his office as we speak," she answered evenly.

"Marseilles and Cannes were two of the least garrisoned cities," he noted absently, crunching numbers and extrapolating facts to their natural, logical progression. "The SIS threat report had indicated that the region was relatively dormant...ah."

He glanced at Josefina. "The NAR."

Josefina blinked in confusion. "What about them?" she asked, a bit of well-earned disgust seeping into her voice. The NAR was famous for the bigots it produced. Bigots like that one ex-boyfriend she'd shot and framed for the murder of his boss.

Good times.

Hughes seemed surprised at the question. "What? Oh, nothing. Just a thought," he lied easily. "Thank you for your report, Josefina. I'll be sure to drop by Xeno's office in a bit for a chat."

Josefina glared at her other saviour before shrugging and deactivating the jammer device in her pocket. If he didn't want to tell her, she had to respect that; Hughes had always played his plans close to his chest, and it hadn't led her wrong yet.

"Right. I'll tell him," she confirmed before giving him a lame wave and disappearing amongst the crowded street, leaving him alone.

Good. Hughes' mind was awhirl. Another piece of the Mentor's plan had finally been played, and he was definitely starting to see the bigger picture, now. This wasn't simply about the Northern Sun, anymore. There were bigger stakes in play.

However, if his deductions were correct, then he needed to make _two_ calls today.

He sighed. So much for having dinner at a reasonable hour.

* * *

_**Unknown Location, Germany, December 3, 2018...**_

"HUUUUUUUGHES!"

CRASH!

Wincing, Riddle's maid was currently cowering in a corner as she watched her master rant and rave against a man called Hughes in his study, an entire cabinet having burst into spontaneous fire as his rage hit fever pitch.

It had all started _so _well, too...

To her relief, her master hadn't wanted to partake in her body for the past few days, so she'd been quite content to just do the normal chores and serve him his tea, as her orders dictated. Then, at around half-past noon, the doorbell had rung and she'd gotten the door. A rather harried man had been standing outside, and she'd debated internally whether to let him in to see her master, as he had requested, or tell him to get the usual appointment.

Evidently, she'd chosen the former, much to her present chagrin.

The man had been ushered into the study, where her master had treated the man calmly, as he would any other guest. He'd been gracious, offering tea and a few crumpets to munch on, which she'd served with her usual professional poise, before they'd gotten down to business.

Which led to this particular situation she found herself in, now.

The man had all but blurted out a few names that seemed to mean something to her master, who'd grown more and more angry as the list grew longer. At this point, she'd seen all the warning signs and had tried to step away as far as possible from her master, only to be horrified when, upon reaching the last name and beginning his profuse apology, the guest was suddenly grabbed by the throat, lifted up in the air, and a blast of red light had burst from her master's free hand, caving in the man's chest.

He'd died on impact.

Struck by horror, she could only watch helplessly as her master flung the body to the ground and began railing against the man called Hughes, apparently some unseen, vicious opponent of his. Unfortunately for her, her attempts to get out of the room as quickly and quietly as possible were thwarted by his angry rampage, and he'd once again forced himself upon her in the most brutal fashion he could, before discarding her and continuing his angry venting.

More than once after the rape — for it could be categorized as nothing else — amidst her frustrated, impotent tears, she wished she could just poison the man and be done with this life. However, the man who'd conscripted her for this job had all but told her that dereliction of her duties to the Mentor would result in her entire family being summarily executed. Even her older brother, who was living in the United States with his own family, had been named a target.

Grabbing the shredded shoulders of her uniform, she clung at herself more tightly as she tried to banish the memory of the handsome man's violence upon her. The man was a monster, no matter how charming and charismatic he passed himself off as to his guests and followers. None of them knew this side of him. None of them even knew he could do magic. He had made sure of that, and he had renewed the threat against her family if she _ever_ spoke of it to their guests.

She hated him. She hated him _so much_ that the nights she dreamed of killing him were the sweetest she could remember having.

Even so, she knew she would never get out of this hell. Her life was now inexorably tied to the Mentor's, and she knew she would likely die before he did. Frankly, considering what he did to her, she somewhat welcomed the prospect.

All she knew right now was that whatever that Hughes character had done, she wished him the best of luck in ruining the Mentors' plans.

While the maid was content in her vengeful line of thinking, however, Riddle was busy getting out his excess rage before he let it utterly consume him, as it would have, in the past. His time amongst his Death Eaters had shown him that whenever he made decisions based on his emotional state, he would overlook the simplest details that often came back to bite him. Potter was different. Potter would take his anger out in a controlled environment, and then he would make decisions.

It was the smart thing to do. The rational thing.

And Riddle refused to be anything but as good, if not better, as the man he was competing against for control over the world.

Hughes, however...

That piece of gutter trash had once again managed to pull one up on him. While his overall plans remained intact, the German government would undoubtedly come by in the next few days to demand an explanation as to _why_ the thirty most critical and capable military leaders and decision-makers needed for the invasion of Austria had all suddenly come down with a simultaneous case of poisoning.

None of them were expected to survive the night.

But that wasn't the source of his frustration. Those thirty men and women were just pawns. What drove him crazy was _how did Hughes know_?!

Under his direction, the Germans had been quietly building up their military and spreading themselves throughout Germany in order to throw off suspicion. The very soldiers were kept completely in the dark, and only those thirty people, plus a few others, had known about the grand plan to take Austria the moment the Northern Sun left the country.

Now, the plan was off. Not permanently, perhaps, but sufficiently set back that when they _did_ decide to carry through with it, the Northern Sun would be ready.

Riddle stopped mid-rage as an idea struck him. No, that wasn't the case for sure, now was it? After all, with the French insurrection underway, there was a very high and probable chance that the Northern Sun would be too entangled to deal with a German invasion of Austria. Even if they did, however, he'd coached the Germans on how best to counter the Northern Sun, meaning there were a few nasty surprises waiting for Potter and Hughes if they decided to be more proactive in his elimination. He doubted it, as the many domestic issues he'd successfully riled up meant they would be busy. More importantly, however, if he could tie down sufficient Northern military assets within France, they would be doubly likely to avoid intervening in the planned invasion.

Which, in turn, meant that the rest of the ETO nations, except perhaps Spain, would lose confidence in the Northern Sun's leadership. After all, if their northern ally was willing to throw Austria under the bus, how likely was it that they were going to meet the same fate when the chips were down?

He stroked his chin pensively as he flicked his wrist, using his magic to clean up the mess he'd made of his living room. Only the bloodied corpse of the unfortunate messenger remained a sore stain on his living room's perfection.

Well, no matter. He'd get the maid to clean it up afterward.

Walking over to one of the book stacks, he tapped his finger on each one's spine as he searched for the appropriate tome. It took him a bit — his collection was quite large, after all — but once he got to it, he smiled as he pulled it out.

Hughes may have won this little skirmish, but all that meant was that he now had to find a way around the obstacle...and ways, there were. He had planned on this next move for some time now, at his allies' behest, but he had expected to use it much later. Well, if Hughes wanted to play nasty _now_, he would oblige.

Personally.

After all, while he could have his men deal with this issue on his behalf, the situation had evolved to such a point where perhaps it was best to do it himself. Better odds of someone not screwing up, that way.

He patted the dusty cover of his book. A book for learning Italian.

Perfect.

* * *

_**Post-AN:** Oh, noes! Riddle has plans! Evil plans! And Hughes has some, too! How much must it **suck** to be a pawn in those two's game, eh? Anyway, please remember to review! I get a kick out of the many delightful conversations I've had with many of you regarding plot development and possible plot points! Of course, if you do want to start a conversation, please also remember that unless it's signed, I can't really reply. Cheers!_


	37. Chapter XXXVII: Revelations

_**AN: **Rejoice, for I am still around! I deeply, deeply apologize to all of you, my dear readers, for the outlandish delay in releasing this chapter. I could parrot on and on with excuses, no doubt, but I'll be bluntly honest: Work._

_I may or may not have mentioned this before, but I've gotten employed as a journalist for a televised News Station here in Panama, and I've been flooded with work every day, to the point where my time to write has been cut down to almost nothing. What little free time I had, I used to get a breather, and that's why this has taken so long. Again, I apologize._

_On another note, I'd like to thank my wonderful beta, Ray, for his continued support of this story. Despite also being an incredibly busy man, he was more than willing to come back and beta this chapter, and future ones, for me despite having not spoken for some time due to both of our jobs getting in the way. Thanks, Ray!_

_And to his friend, Kira (and all those who feel similarly down right now), I give this shout-out: While I don't exactly know the details of what you're going through, rest assured that things will get better if you let them. The world may seem like a harsh, unforgiving place at times, but it's also full of wonder and opportunity. You've just got to focus on the good things, while learning from the bad. Also, having a friend to vent to is a good idea. Just make sure they know you're venting. ;)_

_Anyway, on to the story!_

_- Marquis Black_

* * *

_**Marseilles, French Occupied Territories, January 18, 2019…**_

Speirs was grim as he stood atop the turret of his MAC Tank.

Hands clasped behind his back, he watched solemnly as columns of black smoke drifted up from within the city of Marseilles, polluting the azure sky with their ugliness.

"Marshal!" one of his aides cried from beside the tank. "Please, get down from there! Our counter-sniper teams have yet to secure the area, sir!"

Of course, Speirs knew that. How could he not? As the insurrection in southern France grew out of control, he had taken personal command of the local forces to try and stem the tide of rebellion. That meant that, like in the old days of the Civil War, he was once again a front-line commander. He steadfastly refused to return to the hell hole he called a office.

And as such, he had already been shot at countless times by opportunistic sharpshooters, all to be robbed of their kill thanks to the King's favour.

"The Marshal is fine," Astoria stated simply as she leaned against the tank, arms crossed, but for one index finger pointed casually at Speirs. With that subtle gesture, the Marshal had been surrounded by a rather firm shield from the very beginning.

"Are you irritated at being ordered from the King's side?" Speirs asked as he continued watching the grim spectacle. All around his tank, Northern troops were trudging along the road, in full retreat towards Montpellier. Despite their advanced weaponry, the Northern troops couldn't be expected to face the wrath of an entire city by themselves. As such, Speirs had made the tactical decision to evacuate the garrisons from the most at-risk cities.

Unfortunately, as Marseilles attested, not every evacuation went along smoothly; and, unfortunately for those who lived there and had become loyal to the Crown, many hadn't been able to escape the rebels' hands.

"I am my King's hand," Astoria replied evenly. "Where he wills me, I will go."

Which, of course, meant Speirs had nailed it in one.

Not that it mattered much to Speirs. He knew that even if Astoria was miffed at her assignment, she would do her job admirably. She didn't really have it in her to slack off, _especially_ since the King himself had ordered her to protect him.

Now, if he could only guarantee as much regarding his subordinates…

"How many of our men are out of the city?" he asked his aide, not even flinching as a sniper's bullet slammed into Astoria's shield, skillfully aimed to hit him in the right eye. His aide, however, yelped and swore quite colourfully.

"A-About three-quarters, sir," the aide replied, shaken by the apparent near-miss.

Speirs grunted softly. That was better than expected, considering how long the evacuation had taken. Even so, he could see many disgruntled faces as they passed by his tank, the more novice of the troopers probably going so far as to call him a traitor or a coward, or some other such nonsense.

He would tolerate it, though. After all, they were not without cause in decrying his actions. He had barely put up a fight for now three cities. A substantial chunk of the south-east of France was now in rebel hands, and Speirs had done little to prevent it.

Only the older soldiers would understand. And even then, he would not tell them the plan. Hughes had warned him against disseminating information too much — apparently, the Mentor had more spies in the Northern Sun and its allies than they'd anticipated. Even if he'd promised to deal with the moles, Speirs had decided to work under the assumption that Hughes wasn't done rooting out the bugs yet.

He grunted irritably. He didn't like Hughes. Then again, not many did — and that included those people who _allied_ themselves with him. He wasn't like the Queen or her faction, though. It wasn't about Hughes' militaristic penchant. That was tolerable enough.

What he didn't like was that the man was too shifty. There was never any telling what on earth was going through that man's head, and that made him a dangerous element. Was he loyal? Disloyal? Was he planning on building up the state, then taking over at the right time? Or was he genuinely trying to set up the King's family to rule the coming Empire for generations to come?

Speirs couldn't tell, and he rather hated that. Even with the King, he'd been able to glean the man's towering ambition from the time they served together. But with Hughes, it was like trying to read a brick wall! And being a rather straightforward man, Speirs had even tried to ask him directly what his motives were, and the man had just given the worn out response offered by any soldier: "Loyalty."

Was Hughes really that simple? Was he lying through his teeth to the King's highest ranked military officer?

His gaze fell towards his uniform breast pocket, situated right over his heart. In it lay two simple, handwritten words that Hughes had passed on to him, cryptically saying that it was the key to solving the uprising.

As of yet, however, he'd steadfastly refused to read it...something he was sure the Advisor had already foreseen, much to his irritation. He didn't want the Advisor meddling in the affairs of the armed forces more than he already did. Such monstrous influence would be inappropriate for a man whose job security rested entirely on the King's whim!

Besides, it was time to remind people that he hadn't gained command over the Royal Armed Forces by the King's favour alone. He had once commanded a full third of the Northern Territories' military strength, and taken London from right under the Chiefs of Staff's noses!

"Inform the troops to retreat all the way to Montpellier," he ordered his aide as he saw the black smoke from within Marseilles rise even higher and thicker. More fires to government buildings, no doubt, courtesy of the very same traitors who'd sided with the rebels.

Even Astoria raised an eyebrow at that order. "But, sir!" the aide gasped, bewildered. "We'd be leaving five towns to the rebels!"

Speirs was unmoved. "I gave an order. Follow it," he stated sternly as he glanced down at the man, who seemed another shock away from getting a nasty ulcer. He watched as the aide's shoulders slumped and the man turned away to go carry out the Field Marshal's orders.

"That was harsh," Astoria noted wryly, without fear whatsoever. While the aide had his job to consider when speaking out against Speirs, Astoria had no such reservations. She didn't answer to Speirs.

"Indecision cripples an army quicker than death," Speirs stated firmly as he continued overlooking the Northern retreat. To him, indecision, insubordination, and hesitation were all the product of a leisurely mind given the chance to ponder. If he kept them occupied, active, and focused, then he would be able to enact his strategy much more smoothly.

And there was that whole bit about possible moles in his Armed Forces. The less people knew, the better.

As he watched resentful glances being shot his way by passing troops and officers, he restrained the urge to lecture them on the spot. It was easy to idolize a commander who never once lost, but loss was the greatest teacher of all in war. Until one had tasted defeat, one could never understand the _fear_ of defeat.

This would serve as a good lesson for all of them, and the rest of the Northern Sun. His country had become complacent, thinking itself invincible on the field of battle. It was a dangerous mentality, one that was best stamped out now, when their foes were a mere rabble, than during the middle of a war with, say, Germany.

Or, heaven forbid, Russia.

And war with Germany _was _coming. He didn't need Hughes' intelligence sources to tell him that. He could _feel_ it in his bones. But unlike the French, the Germans had been afforded the opportunity to rebuild from the Blackout. Their infrastructure was weakened, but not annihilated. A war with Germany would not be easy at all.

And so the nation had to be shed of its bad habits.

He looked up at the blue sky. Now, if only Swift could go through with his orders without throwing a tantrum…

He snorted. He'd have better luck having the one-eyed man hug a Death Eater.

* * *

_**Lyon, French Occupied Territories, January 27, 2019…**_

"You can't do this to us!"

"_Herr_ Swift, what is the meaning of this?!"

Swift watched dispassionately as the Austrian officers were corralled and led out of their headquarters at gunpoint. Truth be told, he rather hated doing this to colleagues, but Speirs had been explicit in his orders: with the Austrian government on the brink of pulling out of the ETO due to domestic pressure, the Austrian ETO contingent could no longer be trusted and had to be neutralized.

What that meant, exactly, had been left up to his discretion.

Fortunately for his former comrades, Swift had no stomach for killing former allies the same way he had sent thousands of Death Eaters to their deaths. Unlike the rebels up north, these men and women had bled and fought alongside him, and that earned them a reprieve from an otherwise equally bloody end.

"Sir, our forces have finished isolating and neutralizing the rest of the Austrian detachment," an aide informed him stonily, ignoring the cries of protests from the Austrian officers.

Swift nodded. He was sure this whole situation was just one big misunderstanding between the Northern Sun and the Austrian government, but until that was resolved, he needed to keep to the plan. "Have a battalion erect camps at Dijon to hold the prisoners," he ordered, before narrowing his eyes at the aide. "And make sure they're tolerable. These men were our brothers once...and they will be, again."

His aide nodded firmly and saluted. "Understood, sir." he said before dismissing himself.

Swift grimaced as he heard the shouting continue outside. To be fair, they had a good reason to be this indignant. Even if their government had chosen to leave the ETO, the unspoken rules of diplomacy were that they should be allowed to return to their country unhindered. Instead, the Field Marshal had effectively stabbed them in the back by preempting the Austrians' exit with the summary detention of the entire Austrian contingent.

It had been sickeningly easy, too.

Not because the Austrian soldiers were incompetent or completely dense. Many had quickly realized what was going on and attempted to resist. Unfortunately for them, the FCE tech they had received as part of the ETO joint-military agreement was incorporated with a kill switch, put into place in the event that any of the Northern Sun's allies ever turned against them.

That meant that even as they tried to open fire on their would-be captors, their weapons had stopped working altogether. All in all, only three Northern soldiers had died in the entire operation, and that had been because they had underestimated a group of special forces soldiers.

Idiots.

Still, the operation had gone remarkably smoothly, all things considered. All in all, nearly five thousand Austrian soldiers captured in his district. If all went according to plan in Humboldt's, that would be another five thousand.

About a full third of the Austrian Army rendered useless overnight.

He had to wonder about the Field Marshal's plans, however. How was this, in any way, beneficial to the Northern Sun? Even if they were weakening the Austrians as a prelude to a Northern invasion, that still meant crossing Northern Alpine or German territory. Neither country, in turn, was about to let that happen.

Hell, to Swift, the whole thing made no sense whatsoever. If anything, with war with Germany looming on the horizon, the logical thing, to him, would have been to strengthen ties with Austria, in order to launch a two-front war. The time the Austrians would buy, in turn, would allow the Northern Sun to dash across southern Germany and establish a solid front line.

Instead, it seemed as though the brass was deliberately ostracizing the Austrian contingent, and their government by proxy. Sure, he'd heard of the immense political pressure being leveraged against the Austrian government from within, but so what? Swift was sure the Austrians would never break off from the ETO — their national security depended on it too much.

But, at the same time, he had to concede to the unlikely possibility that it did happen. Neither Speirs nor the Advisor — the only men in the Northern Sun capable of convincing the king to do something like this — were impetuous or cruel. They would not have ordered him to sequester the entire Austrian contingent on a whim. If they believed Austria's withdrawal from the ETO was imminent, then it was likely they had hard facts to back it up.

Even so, Swift couldn't help but feel, for once, that both the Advisor and Speirs had read their allies wrong. He'd talked to Austrian soldiers, once even visited the country. The people he'd spoken to did not sound resentful of the alliance between their nations. They didn't sound ready to hand over their country to anyone.

So, naturally, this had to be a scheme of some sort, right? If the Advisor's actions made no sense to him, then that was because he couldn't see the bigger picture, right? Not that they were misreading their intelligence and driving their ally into the arms of their future enemy?

Speirs sighed explosively, rubbing his eyepatch as it flared with soreness. Damn it, he hated it when he was running blind. He understood the need for operational security, sure, but didn't the upper management trust him enough to clue him in?

He actually paused for a moment there, and then snorted. Of course not. They probably figured his temper would run wild at some point and cause him to mess the grand scheme up. Much easier to keep him under control if he was forced to follow orders without any personal prerogative.

He smirked. Bastards.

He wasn't the only one being led by the nose, though. Grabbing his tablet from the desk, he unlocked it and promptly accessed a list of ETO military movements — part of an ETO transparency pact with the member nations' military brass. In Spain, he saw that Ruíz-Pérez was being transferred, along with his assigned army, to replace the Austrian contingent on the Eastern front. Which made no sense, as there were Belgian and Dutch units on standby that would've been easier to move. These, in turn, were being kept in reserve well behind the border lines.

In short, the ETO's deployment made no sense.

Which obviously meant that something else was going on. What that was, he had no idea, but it sort of grated on his nerves.

Even more suspicious was the order from Minister Curtis to provide access and support to a team from the Ministry of Science. What they were working on hadn't been disclosed to him, no matter how many times he tried to ask, as he was told to just do his duty and ensure they had everything they needed.

Basically, he was their glorified bell boy.

Swift thumbed his chin thoughtfully as he scanned the movement reports. What was Curtis and the brass trying to do? If nothing else, the haphazard way the ETO was behaving was ensuring that the enemy powers would see the weaknesses caused by their inner strife. Was that it? Were they trying to lure the enemy? If so, there were other ways of doing that!

He shook his head, discarding the thought. No. More likely, someone was panicking higher up the food chain, and the wrong decisions were being made. No one was _that_ clever.

...Right?

* * *

_**Dijon, French Occupied Territories, January 24, 2019…**_

"Blowtorch."

She watched her Maker work tirelessly, just another cog in the machine, as the construction team performed at peak efficiency for a much longer period of time than she'd initially calculated for them. The discrepancy was quickly logged for future revision.

Through her visual sensors, she saw another sentient — _SPECIES: HUMAN / SEX: MALE / APPROXIMATE BIOLOGICAL AGE: 35 +/- 3_ — hand over the desired implement, which her Maker took and used quite deftly to continue her work.

Her Maker's male companion — _ID ACKNOWLEDGED: 544473 / NAME: RICHARD I. HUNTLEY / CLEARANCE LEVEL: 5 / CLEARED FOR PROJECT HANNIBAL_ — assisted her in holding the would-be welded structure together while her Maker did the actual welding.

"Minerva."

Her sensors recorded the voice activation command and acted appropriately. Her hologram visualized on the holographic platform, streams of code running along her orb shape — _QUERY: PURPOSE OF ORB SHAPE / 145 POSSIBLE RESULTS FOUND / PROCEED TO ANALYSIS Y/N? Y_ — and, activating the speakers, she responded as expected.

"_Doctor Eisenheim,_" her 'voice' spoke up. "_How may I be of assistance?_" she asked her Maker.

She noted that the Maker did not stop her work even as she addressed her. "I need an update on the progress of all work teams."

She did as asked. Before the Maker was finished voicing the 's' of 'teams,' Minerva had begun the data mining process, countless bytes of information compiled, analysed, revised, documented, redrafted, and finally put into sensible order.

All in less than a second.

"_Overall progress on Project Hannibal is at an estimated 75% completion._" she stated emotionlessly. She had no emotions after all; she was but software within hardware. That's how one of her Maker's colleagues had once referred to her kind. — _ERROR/TERM "KIND" NOT APPLICABLE/ANOMALY FILED C:/MAINSYSTEM/LOGS/ERROR/ERROR LOG COMPILED/ —_ She continued her report dutifully. "_Teams Alpha through Echo have begun Phase Four, while Fox, Zeta, and June have finished their work ahead of schedule. Team Lima is behind schedule by—"_ _CROSS-REFERENCING PROJECT TIMETABLE WITH TEAM LIMA WORK PACE _"_—1.2 hours. All other teams are acting within Project parameters._"

"Thank you, Minerva," her Maker said absently as she continued welding the bars of steel together.

Minerva. A casual search had found 40,900,000 mentions of the name within the human-designated "Internet."

She found gratuitous use of her designation in scientifically-questionable programs and articles regarding "horoscopes" and "fortunes." She had discarded this being the reason for her designation almost immediately — the Maker did not seem prone to such conjectural logic, much of which seemed obsessed with the placement of planets, or ancient myths.

Other uses referred to projects of learning, some of war. She discarded these, too. None of them seemed to have created a lasting impact on human historical records to warrant the distinction.

Eventually, she had come round back to mythology, and found what seemed the most likely candidate for her name: Minerva, Roman Goddess of Wisdom. Result #2 on her list. Overlooked due to mythological connotations. Patron Goddess of Learning, Wisdom, Arts, Sciences, Commerce, Weaving, Crafts, Magic, Music, and Poetry.

Yes. That fit well within the behavioural parameters shown by the Maker. An allusion to a higher power of learning and science.

She'd been satisfied with the result, and left the query at that. Then, one of the Maker's companions — _/SEARCHING DATABASE/AUDIO RECORDING FOUND/OPEN "Audio_ 3"/"MINERVA, ELICIA? YOU NEED TO LET GO. ATHENA'S GONE."/END AUDIO/SUBJECT IDENTIFIED: JEREMIAH ANSEN/CLEARANCE LEVEL: MAX_ — had posed a query that had piqued her interest. Had she been named based on something other than mythology? Doctor Ansen's speech patterns had certainly insinuated as much.

Which of course led Minerva to realize a search on her Maker, to see if there were any Athena's in her life which could account for the decision. She found none. She then cross-referenced the lab staff for nicknames and actual names. Nothing came up either.

She was fortunate; AIs — even custom-designed ones like her — did not _feel_. Thus, after two roadblocks, she felt none of the frustration her observations implied her human handlers would feel. All she did was search in a different place.

Eventually, her search led her to the SPECWARPRO database. The very database her creation was archived in. Her...birthplace, she assumed the human counterpart would be. Or perhaps, more adequately, the place her certificate of "birth" resided? — _/SAVE QUERY FOR FUTURE RESEARCH/_

Athena. The First. Firstborn of the Artificial Intelligences.

Finding her file had required some of the highest clearances Minerva had ever seen — some of which most staffers actually dismissed as _mythical_ — but she had access to _everything_. Such was the right of the Maker's personal assistant.

She had scanned every bit of information on Athena, trying to better understand her roots. She knew, by serial designation, that she was a Fourth Generation AI. That meant that Athena had survived long after her estimated longevity. An anomaly, as no other AI of the First Generation had survived past a year and a half. Two, in a few rare cases. Yet, Athena had lived for two and a half, until some anomalies had cropped up that forced the Maker to terminate her.

Said anomalies were not elaborated upon. Minerva filed that in her temporary archives. Perhaps if the occasion arose, she could ask her Maker more about Athena, and what led to her ultimate demise.

Her holographic projection rotated a bit as it watched her Maker continue her manual labour. It was seemingly anomalous behaviour in itself, as far as the AI was able to tell. Having observed humans in the laboratories and wherever the Maker brought her, she had been able to deduce that the vast majority seemed to function in accordance to some arbitrary hierarchy. Some worked harder than others, irrespective of their security clearance. Some with the most security clearance, like Dr. Ansen, seemed to work according to their whims, flitting from one project to the next with little observable pattern.

And then there was her Maker. From the deference shown to her by her colleagues, Minerva could tell that her creator was at the very top of this hierarchy, but paradoxically, she worked as hard as any lower-ranked human, sometimes more. For an artificial intelligence such as itself, working outside one's parameters seemed...anomalous, contradictory — like flawed programming.

Another question to ask, Minerva supposed.

Surprising. Her calculations had suggested 1.4 hours of work remaining at minimum. Perhaps shoddy worksmanship? She flagged Lima's work section for inspection.

"Thank you, Minerva," her Maker said again, never even turning to look at her digital assistant.

Another flag came up in her systems, just as her Maker finished thanking her. Her news mining programs had found something of interest within the Northern News Network's periodical news bulletin. A quick cross-reference with other news outlets confirmed the spread of the news story.

"_Doctor Eisenheim,_" Minerva spoke up again, seemingly cutting short her Maker's thanks. "_As per your instructions, I have been monitoring the news stations for any significant event regarding the topics of AUSTRIA, ETO, EUROPEAN TREATY ORGANIZATION, GERMANY, and WAR._"

A look passed over her Maker's face as she finally turned to face her. A quick cross-reference from past observations told Minerva this look reflected "apprehension."

"What did you find?"

Minerva replaced her holographic image with one of the news feed she'd intercepted. Muted, of course, to provide her own impartial analysis, as opposed to whatever "propagandic drivel" the news program might spout, as her Maker had once called it.

"_It would appear that the German Federation has initiated a border skirmish with the Austrian Republic._" Minerva reported dutifully in that calm, almost cold mechanical tone of hers. "_However, due to its recent suspension from the European Treaty Organization on account of its continued disregard for the safety of ETO citizens, the Austrian government has been unable to make use of the Organization's mutual defense clause. My calculations indicate a —" /CALCULATING PROBABILITIES/ACCOUNTING FOR POSSIBLE VARIATIONS/ _"—_84.3667% probability that the skirmish will escalate to war within two months, accounting for a margin of error of one month._"

She watched her Maker's face lose some of its colour — according to her databases, a sign of horror or fear. A quick cross-analysis of other overt biological markers quickly allowed her to rule in favor of the former.

"Then it's begun, just like Hughes—" /_SEARCHING DATABASE/321 POSSIBLE SUBJECTS FOUND/EXECUTING DEDUCTIVE REASONING ALGORITHM/SUBJECT FOUND: ALBERT HUGHES/OCCUPATION: ROYAL ADVISOR/CLEARANCE: ERROR_NOT_FOUND/_ "—Said it would," her Maker said sadly. Minerva said nothing, though she was given pause by the fact that Hughes had no clearance entry. Heck, it wasn't a matter of him having none, or an anomalous entry, but rather that it was _missing_ altogether.

Like the other pending questions Minerva had stored away for future reference, the AI filed it in her memory and let it be. Her programming demanded her fullest attention to her Maker's needs, and her efficiency would drop if she investigated every little thing that she didn't understand.

"Minerva," her Maker prompted her. "Please inform Advisor Hughes that Project HANNIBAL will be finished on schedule. "And please make sure that all work teams are apprised of the need for efficient urgency."

Hardly a chore, for the AI. Within fractions of a second, Hughes' AI assistant, Walsingham, had been contacted and the message delivered. Much like his predecessor, the new Walsingham was gruff, cold — its personality algorithm a one-dimensional, ahistorical representation of the Virgin Queen's spymaster.

She wondered where she got hers. Was it, like her name, an inheritance from her predecessor? Considering her Maker's apparent emotional attachment to her predecessor, it seemed likely.

So many things to find out…

She wondered, if the AIs were made in the image of their Makers, did that mean that her curiosity was a reflection of human nature? Had she been programmed that way?

More to ponder, more to think.

More to wonder, more knowledge to sync.

Curiouser and curiouser.

* * *

_**Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, January 28, 2019…**_

"With all due respect to my esteemed colleague, but unless I'm imagining things, that sounds an awful lot like cowardly isolationism!"

As expected, the man on the other side of the room shot to his feet, red in the face but stopped from speaking out by the Speaker's heated glare. The debate had been tiptoeing dangerously close to the limits of civility, and with all the shouting going about, it was hardly surprising that even the most (supposedly) impartial man in the room was about to lose his temper.

Sirius watched as the Speaker then turned his glare to his side of the gallery, fixating it on the outspoken MP.

"There was no call for such accusations, Mister Fitzroy. Please maintain your remarks within the boundaries of civility." the older man growled out.

Sirius saw his ally about to retort, probably some snarky apology, and quickly nipped that in the bud by shooting a closer MP a look that translated into a swift elbow in the man's stomach. Fortunately, Fitzroy quickly got the message and mumbled out his apologies.

After settling that issue, the Speaker then turned his attention to the Opposition bench, seeing many of them standing and waiting to be called on. To Sirius' annoyance, that person turned out to be the Leader of the Opposition, Thomas Henry.

"Thank you, Mister Speaker," the man said with that same, slick charm that grated on Sirius' nerves. He flashed a charming smile at where he knew the cameras to be before turning to meet Sirius' gaze. "My friends, we've all heard and spoken about this more egregious matter for hours, now, but I can't help but notice that the most important voice in the debate has been curiously silent. Mister Prime Minister," the way he'd stressed the title had Sirius narrow his eyes in distaste. "would you care to weigh in on the government's policy?"

No, he bloody well did not!

Or so Sirius wished he could say, but he knew that wasn't an option. With the Austrian Republic suspended from the ETO, and the Germans beginning their military offensive any day now, it was just a matter of time before he knew he would have to stand before this "august" assembly and call a vote for war.

Even worse, that was just the problem they could _see_. Sirius, however, knew that beyond the German threat were the Northern Alpine Republic and the Sicilian Republic, both of whom had started agitating towards war as well, no doubt fuelled on by the uprising in the south-eastern French Territories.

Infuriatingly, however, Harry seemed unconcerned by these issues, continuing his tours of the country and the French Territories to raise morale and support for the government. Useful, undoubtedly, but infuriatingly blasé.

And Hughes was no better! The man was supposed to keep these threats under control, but instead he seemed to be enjoying watching them grow! If he'd done his bloody job, he wouldn't have to explain himself before the Opposition!

Sirius sighed mentally as he got up to his feet. He could rant and rail at those two all he liked, but he had a job to do.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," he started as he approached the pulpit and stood ramrod straight in an effort to project gravitas. "My friend, the leader of the opposition, claims he wishes to know the government's policy regarding the situation in Austria." he noted. "Well then, here it is. We will not act unless so asked."

Almost instantly, cries of shame and incredulity ripped through the hall as both Opposition and Government benchers rose to their feet in disapproval.

He raised his hands for silence, with little effect. A few violent strikes of the gavel from the Speaker managed to resolve the issue much more effectively.

"Let me be clear," Sirius resumed his speech, utterly hating his counterpart's smug grin. "The Northern Sun is not retreating. We are not backing down from anyone. However, we must face two realities before we make any hasty decisions to enter another conflict."

He raised a finger. "First, we have just come out of one war. Are we really so willing to throw our young men and women into the grinder that we would call for war when there is no cause for it? Is my colleague really so bloodthirsty?" he asked archly, eliciting a few chuckles from his side and outraged grumbles with the Opposition.

"Secondly," he raised another finger. "We no longer have ties of alliance with Austria," he reminded his audience. "The mutual assistance clauses of the Treaty are not applicable to a suspended member, and so we hold no right to intervene unless so asked by the Austrian government, which they have not. As our interests are not under direct threat, we have no reason to mobilize our forces."

"What a load of self-serving tripe!" someone from the Opposition called out, instantly silenced by the smack of the Speaker's gavel.

"Order!" the older man grumbled out as he hit the desk again for good measure. "Please continue, Prime Minister."

Sirius nodded in thanks before staring down his now less-smug counterpart. "Perhaps it _is_ self-serving. Perhaps we _are_ being selfish. It is, however, the _law_. This government has acted solely under the tenets of the very international laws that we put into place. If we are so willing to discard these rules for our benefit, what would stop other, less friendly governments from doing the same?"

As he saw the man's lips purse, Sirius had to withhold a grin. This was sweet, sweet payback for him. The Opposition had managed to scrounge enough support a week back to put a screeching halt to a major law that would've helped their new French-born citizens integrate into the Northern Sun.

Apparently, they took it rather badly that these conquered peoples would one day have a say on whether they served in Parliament or not.

Of course, they'd disguised their reasons behind fiscal responsibility, as Sirius' plan would've necessitated either a redrawing of the electoral borders, or the wholesale expansion of the legislature to accommodate the acquired population.

No one had missed the fact that unless such representation was granted, the French Territories would remain under occupied status, giving the companies and military there much more leeway than they normally would.

A _lot_ of private interests had gone into that vote.

More importantly, a _lot_ of his plans had been derailed by said vote. Granting the former French citizens the right to participate in civil society wasn't just a means of exacting a just piece of legislation...it was also a way of shoring up support for the government, particularly as the ETO crumbled. His government had put a _lot_ of its political capital into the longevity of the organization, and so its failure to contain Germany, to keep the instability at bay, and to protect the people from the attacks of the Mentor and his ilk...it had all cost them dearly. If he didn't secure a political win soon, Sirius knew the next elections would effectively end their control over the legislatures.

And, as little as Harry esteemed the legislature of his own country, Sirius knew that ignoring the issues in Parliament would just spell disaster, in the shape of most of Harry's power being stripped from him, until he became a figurehead like his predecessors.

Something they had _all_ worked very hard to avoid.

"So you see, Mister Speaker, Ladies and Gentlemen of this esteemed House, the government is not willing to breach the very statutes it promulgated. Perhaps the rule of law means nothing to certain groups, but rest assured that the Northern Sun will abide by its commitments to its allies, _within_ the framework of the law."

As expected, the Whip quickly rallied the Government benchers to a round of vigorous applause. Even as he sat, however, Sirius was forced to admit to himself that however he tried to paint the situation, the Opposition _was_ right in one thing: the ETO, and by association, the Northern Sun, was in trouble. Even if Austria was no longer protected by ETO regulations, that didn't mean that its conquest wouldn't affect the rest of Europe. Emboldened, it wasn't a stretch to believe that the Germans wouldn't invade the Northern Sun to reclaim the territory it'd lost to the French. Or that by failing to act, the Russians would take their silence as permission and begin absorbing Eastern Europe again.

Sirius wanted to grimace, but kept up his satisfied facade. Only a rhythmic clenching and unclenching of his hands betrayed any mounting frustration. With Warwick in Italy again, he had no solid ally for the Foreign Office to deflect attention from these issues. As competent as the Deputy Foreign Minister was, there was no real substitute for Warwick in this.

And heaven knew that if he brought Curtis forward to speak on behalf of the government, the Germans would declare war the next day!

As much as his affections for the woman remained solid, he had long since reconciled with the fact that she had all the tact of a bulldozer. It made for a great leader of the Armed Forces, but a poor public relations speaker.

"George," he leant back as he addressed the Chief Whip, a severe looking man who looked like someone had artificially recreated Sidney Paget's illustration of James Moriarty. "Please remind the benchers we don't need more attention being brought onto this topic."

The older man nodded once. "I'll have a word with them, rest assured, Prime Minister."

Sirius nodded. "And everything is set for next month's vote?" he asked just as quietly.

George nodded. "Three line whip, Prime Minister. Just like you asked," the man all but whispered. "Had a nice, long chat with the unruly boys, too. Made sure to _inform_ them of the consequences of going against Party line again."

Another nod. That was good news. The last vote on naturalizing the French conquered peoples had failed partly due to the minor backbencher revolt he'd suffered. It wasn't enough to invoke fears of leadership challenge, but it _had_ been enough to make them lose the vote, especially since they'd needed a two-third majority vote, and they'd been shy of that number by just three thanks to the revolt.

More than a few ridings had felt the sting of lack of political patronage as a result.

Sirius only hoped that, with the rest of Europe going to pot, his people would understand that this time around, he wasn't messing around. They would fall in line, or they would dearly suffer for it.

* * *

_**Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, January 30, 2019…**_

"Sir, I must insist! His Majesty is not to be disturbed right now!"

The fat, balding man in an very expensive looking suit snorted disdainfully as Cecilia kept trying to bar his way with her lithe frame without using magic. To her present regret, Astoria had banned her from using magic unless the Princess was in mortal danger, as the Chief Bodyguard still held a great deal of suspicion towards her over her past Death Eater allegiances.

Except, right now, she could've dearly used a Sticking Spell to keep the man's large feet stuck to the ground, instead of trampling his way down the corridor of the Royal Palace. Even more regrettably, none of the guards could actually help her, as the King had told no one else that he was cancelling this meeting at the very last second.

And one didn't exactly get in the way of the Duke of Walpole.

The man's father, Edmund Roberts, the first Duke of Walpole, had been one of the main financial backers of the rebellion against the Chiefs of Staff. Unlike Warwick or the Goblins, however, he'd had no aspirations for a government job, only wanting a high ranking title and the promise that his businesses would be left alone.

And as Duke, he also gained the privilege of demanding an audience with the King under the terms of the new nobility contracts.

Which led to this particular predicament.

The current Duke, his son, had recently found out that the government was intending to try their hand at naturalizing the conquered French citizens, knowing full well that much of his businesses in France had taken advantage of their limbo status to pay them less than he should. If they naturalized, his costs would easily triple, and he would be forced to grant them working privileges only currently applicable to Northern-born men and women.

Suffice to say, he held none of the wisdom, vision, or compassion of his predecessor.

"This audience was scheduled a month ago and I've waited _long enough_," the Duke snapped irritably as he stomped his way towards the double doors that led to the King's study. Even as he then grasped the door handles and pushed, Cecilia kept stammering out protests, insisting that he was unduly intruding…

On the King playing with his daughter.

Mouth open, about to shout, the Duke was swiftly silenced by the sight before him. The entire room seemed like a bomb had gone off, with intricate, _expensive_ furniture upturned or broken. At one end of the study, the King's work desk was set on its side, acting as some type of fort, while a giant, blue-flame dinosaur-esque creature advanced on it, mimicking a roaring expression.

At first, the Duke could've sworn he'd just walked into an assassination attempt on the King. Except, _that_ impression ended when he saw the King and the Princess, both with what seemed to be plastic hard hats, peeking out from behind the desk and opening fire on the blue flame monster with what he could swear were children's dart guns.

True to form, the flame beast apparently mimicked being hit and dramatically — how the _hell_ does a flame monster know how to act dramatically?! — collapsed on its side, despite the darts having gone right through its incorporeal body.

"Yes! Victory!" the Princess squealed triumphantly from behind the desk, shooting to her feet and pointing to the sky adorably. In her green sundress, with her wild, curly red hair flowing down to the small of her back, she looked like a conquering Irish queen. "Well done, henchman number 4!"

The Duke blinked. Had the Princess just called her father "_henchman_"?!

No, wait.

_Number 4?!_ Who were numbers 1 through 3?!

To the Duke's amazement, the King just burst out laughing, even as the blue flame monster dissipated into nothing. _This_ was the man who had torn down the old order and built a Kingdom out of nothing?!

In that moment, he completely discredited his deceased father's stories about the man. There was no way such an...immature man had orchestrated the fall of his own country and rebuilt it in his image!

"Ooh! Visitors, papa!" the scarlet-haired child squeaked excitedly, apparently forgetting that her father was her henchman. She clapped her hands as she saw Cecilia at the Duke's side. "Ceecee! Papa and I were playing! Do you want to play with us?!"

Any other day, any other occasion — especially one in which the King was not present — Cecilia would've accepted the offer. She dearly loved little Katerina, even though her stewardship over the future Queen had started out as merely a way to get her out of the death penalty.

However, this time around, that was just impossible. While no one else had been paying much attention to the King, _she had_.

And that momentary, transient glare spoke _volumes_ of his fury at having his time with his daughter interrupted.

There wasn't enough money in the _universe_ to make her want to stick around for when he cut loose on the Duke.

"Katerina," another warning sign. The King almost _never_ addressed his daughter by her full name, always preferring to use pet names to show his affection. "Why don't you go with Ceecee to fetch us something to drink? Papa apparently has _a few things_ _to take care of._"

Oh, man. If Cecilia had ever been afraid of the King before, she was utterly terrified of him now. His daughter, naturally, had completely missed the threatening tone in his voice, or his pissed off body language, but even the Duke, thick as he was, hadn't. Cecilia only hoped that the search for the next Duke of Walpole didn't take too long.

"Okay!" the little princess agreed enthusiastically, happy to comply with her father's request. As far as the future Queen was concerned, this had been an amazing day; her father, whom she saw infrequently, had actually agreed to play whatever she wanted with her! He'd conjured up blue fire that tickled her, and even played fort with her! This was the best day ever!

Harry, for his part, had quite enjoyed playing with his daughter. While he had countless public engagements to keep him occupied, he felt as though none of that mattered if his precious little girl resented him. He already had too little time to spend with his wife, and he was damned if he was going to let rulership interfere with his duties as a father!

Which was why, naturally, he was now considering how best to vaporize the portly Duke standing before him without causing a national scandal. Taking a seat in one of the many wrecked chairs in his study, he glared a hole into the portly man.

"I see my request to postpone the meeting failed to reach you, Your Grace," Harry stated deadpan, although both men knew the statement was a lie. "How regrettable. I must ensure that my messengers are more diligent next time."

He watched the man swallow nervously as he obviously began to regret his decision to barge in here. Good. Let him stew.

"You realize that the only reason you're not a pile of _ash_ right now is because of the enormous respect I had for your father, right?" he asked calmly, resting his cheek on his fist as he stared down the Duke. He conveniently failed to mention that even for him, killing a civilian in cold blood was both out of the question, and _very, very_ illegal.

The Duke swallowed nervously again. Even so, with the die being cast and all, he couldn't very well back down at this point. "Your Majesty, please understand...our meeting was programmed…"

"And I asked for a postponement, Your Grace," Harry pointed out icily. "As you could see, I was spending time with my daughter, _my only daughter_, which is something I value much more than your attempt at convincing me to withhold approval of a law duly voted on, given how little time I have to spend with her."

The Duke narrowed his eyes, finally regaining some of his earlier determination. "With all due respect, Your Majesty, the terms of your agreement with my father explicitly prohibited undue interference with our businesses. The law your uncle is passing through Parliament would irrevocably alter our business scheme."

This time, it was Harry's turn to narrow his gaze. "Don't presume me a fool, Your Grace," he warned icily. "I'm well aware of what the _Prime Minister_," he stressed the title, "is trying to put through Parliament, and not only does it not target your businesses specifically, it would also bring in the conquered folk of the French territories into the Northern fold. It is a sound plan. A _just_ plan."

"It affects my _workforce_."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "And that's the crux of the situation, isn't it?" he asked archly. "Payroll. I'm not as soft and ignorant of what goes around me as people might think, Your Grace. I'm well aware that extending basic rights to the former French citizens means your employed workforce there would suddenly have to be paid more, to have health insurance provided by _your_ company. Those are quite the costs."

The Duke didn't dare to glare at the King, but he did narrow his eyes in displeasure. "Yes."

Well, Harry had to give it to the man that he hadn't tried to hide behind empty patriotism, like so many other gutless parasites. "Why do you think the Frenchmen are rebelling, Your Grace?" he asked then, rather suddenly. As expected, the unexpected non-sequitur had thrown the portly man. "Do you think it is the dying throes of resistance? Pitiable actions of a defeated nation?"

"How is that relev—"

"Because the reason they're rebelling, Your Grace, is _you_," Harry spat out, his glare back in full force. "For goodness' sake, man, think! Do you honestly think they'd risk it all against a country they _know_ they can't defeat? Certainly, a few of their numbers must be so fanatical, but the rest? The average man and woman who supports them in other ways?"

Harry was tired of this. Tired of this idiot before him, barging in on his quality time with his sole heir and daughter. Tired of idiots thinking that just because he'd assumed a position his predecessor had vacated as a titular figurehead, he would be just as pliable, just as content. He had kept tabs on everything his people did. He had kept his presence felt in the Armed Forces. He demanded constant updates on his wife's work, and that of her subordinates. Even if he hadn't the time to assimilate all the information at once, he had to have _access_.

And these people still thought his thighs had grown fat. That his skill had decayed. That he was magically no longer the conqueror he had once been. No longer the mastermind of the fall of an entire nation. No longer the architect of the Northern Sun.

How wrong they were.

"You, and your like, Your Grace, treat the Frenchmen as cattle, as modern day slaves. Unwhipped, unstarved, but every bit as subservient and dependent. You use their wages as your whip. You use empty promises of future rights to quell their hunger...is it any mystery, really, that they've rebelled? Wouldn't _you_?" he asked firmly.

"Your Majesty, I never—" the man started to protest, kept quiet only by the force of the King's glare. And the sound of his chair's arm splintering as a magically reinforced fist vaporized it.

"Never my arse!" Harry spat. "Your father understood business, Your Grace! He understood that he could have his fortune if he worked _with_ me, not _in_ _spite_ of me. What the Prime Minister is doing is _my_ will," he said forcefully as his glare made the fat man cower. "I _want_ this continent united. Not ruled by one over all, but _united_ in rights, in opportunities, in _welfare_."

He pushed himself up onto his feet, then, feeling the magical tracker he'd placed on his daughter start its final approach to the study. He didn't want her polluted by the petty politics just yet, so he had to wrap things up. In a few strides, he quickly invaded the Duke's personal space before the portly man had a chance to react, and stared him down. "Remember this, Your Grace; I put your family where it is. I can just as easily take those privileges back," he threatened, despite knowing it would be nowhere near as easy or clean as he made it sound. "You have the chance now to stand with _me_, and be on the right side of history. I suggest you take it, and tell your men in Parliament to _back off_."

The portly man stuttered unintelligibly as he tried to muster some outrage, but failed. The truth was, the King was right; even if this government failed, and the next one refused to do so, at some point in time, enough popular support would be mustered to push the rights of the conquered peoples of the Northern Sun into law.

"My losses will be…" he tried to get out, before the King's narrowing eyes stopped him mid-sentence.

"Acceptable," the King finished firmly before stepping back and returning to his seat. "If they are ruinous, and you decide to stand with us, I will consider asking the Prime Minister to look kindly on extending future government contracts to your companies."

As he'd guessed, the Duke's eyes glimmered at the prospect. Considering the vast reconstruction and construction projects being carried out in the French territories, the government contracts for such projects were considered a godsend for many an entrepreneur.

"I...understand, Your Majesty," the Duke said silkily as he gave a rather awkward bow of deference.

Harry nodded at him, setting his hands in his lap. Just as Cecilia knocked on the door, he looked at the Duke and waved him off. "This has been a productive discussion, Your Grace. We thank you for your exercising judicious wisdom," he stated neutrally as his daughter all but barged in. No sense showing bad manners in front of his little girl. "And we look forward to conducting further business with you, at a more appropriate time, perhaps."

The implied threat there was not lost on anyone in the room above the age of 10.

"Of...course, Your Majesty," the Duke answered graciously, swallowing nervously as he remembered the King's threat. He bowed again to him, then to the Princess, before shuffling out of the room, still looking quite pleased with himself.

Gods, Harry just wanted to burn that smug smile off his face!

Sure, he hadn't won this fight out of justice or morality. Sure, he'd basically bartered away millions of pounds of government contracts. Still, Sirius would have no more problems in Parliament regarding his law.

He smiled at his daughter as she ran up to him to offer him a bottle of apricot juice — her favorite. Graciously accepting it, he patted her on the head appreciatively and offered her a sip — despite pretty much knowing she'd already drank her own bottle on the way here, probably. As she happily took him up on his offer, Harry nodded to Cecilia, who understood the silent message and left the room for father and daughter to continue their bonding time.

Yet, Harry's thoughts were a mile away.

In a way, he was grateful for the distance his current position gave him from everything. It offered him a better, wider picture of what was going on. It'd taken some time, but he thought he had Hughes' plans deduced, and he had to give it to the man — it was rather cunning, if a bit unnecessarily bloody. He'd intervene, but then he'd probably get dragged into the planning minutiae, and he rather wanted to avoid that right now.

And then there was his wife. He'd seen little of her these days, after Hughes had requested her and her team to help him with his endgame. While it was nice to see the two cooperating, he reminded himself to up her guards; he trusted Hughes with his life...but not especially with _hers_. Too many politics in between.

He smiled down at his daughter as she offered him the bottle of juice and again patted her on the head. To his everlasting relief, she was growing up to be a kind child, compassionate and empathetic...which, admittedly, would make for a poor leader in times of war, but would help her be a fantastic Queen in peacetime.

And he'd be damned if he left her an embattled throne.

* * *

_**Northern-German Border, February 15, 2019…**_

"_Bloody hell._"

Ford snorted amusedly as he heard King vocalize everyone else's feelings at that moment. Fireteam Guardian had been airlifted from combat duties in the outskirts of Montpellier, where Field Marshal Speirs was _still_ holed up as he fought off a mounting insurrection, to ostensibly patrol a square mile of nothing in the middle of the former Franco-German border.

At least, that had been their impression.

Instead, they were met by a gigantic — in every sense of the word — forest, spanning as far as the eye could see in every direction. Not only were the trees massive, they were also thick and numerous. Frankly, Ford doubted anything bigger than a motorbike would be able to maneuver in there. Hence why their helicopter had landed them on the outskirts of the forest. They would've taken a Portkey, but apparently wards had been set up around the forest to avoid just that.

Crazy to think this had been the work of a few mere weeks, though.

Ford had to agree. He'd fought in forests before, but nothing quite like _this_.

"_I'm calling bullshit,_" Buchanan said flatly over comms. "_There's no way, no fucking way this is real. Maybe some sort of mirage to fuck with the Krauts._"

In the past, Ford might've agreed. These days, however, he didn't put anything beyond the abilities of the mages. Not after seeing what Meteor could cook up up close and personal.

Thankfully, he didn't have to speak his mind regarding that, as Petrovsky promptly shot down Buchanan's hypothesis with a simple rasp of his knuckles on one of the nearby, gargantuan trees. The solid knocking soundly dispelled any such thinking.

"Well, guess that's that, then," Ford mused as he brought up his rifle and walked forward towards the forest's edge. It was ridiculously intimidating, to say the least, as some of the roots he was walking towards were easily the size of him. Made for great cover, but really screwed up their mobility.

As if it wasn't enough, however, a howl pierced through the air at that moment, punctuating the fact that the forest was far from empty.

"_Great. Not enough we have to walk through the Forest of Doom...now they have wolves._" King whined.

"_If we're lucky, that's __**all**__ that's in there._" Alice noted cheekily, though she had hit some of their greatest worries right on the nail.

"_Oh, sack up, both of you,_" Buchanan reproached them, easily stuffing down her own anxieties. "_We're an elite team of the some of the Northern Sun's best fucking soldiers, in ridiculously well crafted armour, and the training, weapons, and genetic engineering to fuck up any asshole who even looks at us funny._" She finished her speech by very deliberately powering up the magnets of her MAC LMG. "_They want a piece of us? They're welcome to fucking try._"

Ford snorted again, though he kept his peripheral vision firmly set on the sonar icon of his helmet's HUD, a new feature they'd added in during their latest software and hardware update. It made for a great minimap of the area, but the ridiculous amount of trees and wildlife pretty much made it useless at the moment.

Pity they weren't operating near Montpellier anymore. The sonar app had really made it easy to hunt down rebels.

"Alright, alright; enough bitching," he ordered firmly, prompting his subordinates to straighten up. "Meteor and Earthshaker already have a head start on us...about two klicks north-west," he added, checking the waypoint on the minimap again. Hopefully, the two Military Mages would have a camp set up to receive them. He didn't really want to wander around a forest this big without a base camp set up to regroup at in case of emergency.

He still had nightmares about Operation Guardian.

"_Point_."

Ford nodded at Petrovsky, who promptly vaulted over a large tree root and disappeared from view. A moment later, the sniper's green icon flashed once. All clear.

"Let's move out. NVDs on, people. Spectre, we're on your six."

Another green blink, and they were off.

Fifteen minutes later, Guardian found themselves still navigating the maze of trees that the AGRICORPS mages had set up to prevent any military advances along this region of the Franco-German border. For a while, a Maginot Line-style series of defensive positions had been floated around as a viable method of guarding the border, this time incorporating the _entire_ Ardennes, Belgian, and Dutch border with Germany, but the costs had nearly given Ragnok an aneurysm.

Other ideas were similarly proposed, including another Babylon Wall, until the Treasury effectively laid down the law and gave everyone a budget to work with. To everyone's surprise, it had been the AGRICORPS that had come up with the winning bid, at a mere 1/25th of the offered budget — thereafter prompting Ragnok to declare the AGRICORPS honorary Goblins.

Instead of building expensive fortifications that needed constant manning and patrolling, the AGRICORPS had decided to let nature work as a natural-esque barrier. Originally concocted as a means of widespread reforestation to offset the cataclysmic effects of the wars that had sprung up around the world, the AGRICORPS had devised a sort of super-tree, capable of growth from seed to maturity in a fraction of the time it would take a normal tree of the same type. The ones that now inhabited the Great Forest, however — and _everyone_ had panned at the unoriginal name — had been genetically altered to be thick to the point of quasi-indestructible. A conventional tank could fire at one, and it'd probably just carve out a portion of the trunk instead of felling it. Given this, plus the fact that the tree density was such that nothing bigger than a motorcycle could feasibly maneuver inside, the entire forest effectively formed an impenetrable wall against mechanized armor divisions.

Of course, infantry wouldn't have that problem, but then it would also make for the slowest attack of all time, given that crossing the entire breadth of the forest, from the German border to the nearest critical city, was about two weeks worth of travel by foot, thanks to some deft urban reorganization by the Northern authorities.

But either way, it basically meant the Northern Sun's borders with Germany were effectively sealed.

Except, for some reason, a small team of AGRICORPS mages and their escorts had suddenly disappeared off the radar. Then, to make things odder, the two mages sent in to look for them disappeared too.

Ordinarily, that would have resulted in massively increased military presence along the highly volatile border, but with the rebellion in the southern French territories still ongoing and the constantly increasing tensions with the Northern Alpine Republic and the Sicilian Republic, the military had decided to stave off overreacting and instead sent in Fireteam Guardian, on account of their incredible service record and ability to work well by themselves and with mages.

Still, it had begged the question: what the hell was in there that could take out so many mages?

The fact that the forest seemed alive with unseen, cacophonous creatures didn't make the trek any more comforting, either. Howls, roars, tweets, chirps...every animal noise he'd ever heard, short of a damn _elephant_ seemed to be living in this artificial forest.

"_Who the fuck let out the zoo in here?_" Liam grumbled as he vaulted over another protruding tree root as thick as his head.

Ford said nothing, keeping his eyes wide and his focus on alert, as it wasn't beyond credulity that some magical nasties had decided to tag along and make their homes here. He'd heard of the Centaur peoples, for example, and how some of the tribes tended towards sudden violence against humans.

Or, if they were _really_ boned, werewolves would show up.

Not that they couldn't handle one — their armour pretty much made them claw and bite-proof. He just didn't look forward to fighting a superpowered, fast as hell killing machine capable of human reasoning — _if _they took their potions diligently.

Before long, however, Petrovsky reappeared standing on top of a tree root and waving the team towards him. As they climbed over the ridiculous arboreal appendage, Ford felt a smile start to form as he caught sight of a small encampment. Meteor and Earthshaker had been deployed ahead of Guardian, on account of the fact that as Mages, they would be best suited to fighting any supernatural nasty lurking in the forest and setting up a base camp.

Strangely, however, everything was quiet.

Almost too quiet.

"Heads up" he ordered immediately, his instincts suddenly flaring up as he realized that the forest seemed to have literally shut up. Not a peep anywhere. "Spectre, eyes up high."

He barely registered the fact that all of his squad's readiness icons blinked once in acknowledgement. His rifle raised to eye level, his targeting computer already seeking out hostiles, he slowly walked to the front of the Fireteam and took point, leading them closer and closer to the camp.

Something wasn't right. Even if Meteor and Earthshaker were laying low, the forest wouldn't have so suddenly gone silent. Right now, in fact, it was so quiet that his helmet was clearly picking up the sound of the campfire crackling.

"_What's the word, boss?_" Liam asked, tense and ready to fire at a moment's notice.

"Eyes peeled," Ford ordered curtly. "It's quiet. Too quiet."

No more words had to pass between him and his second in command, as the Fireteam descended into tense silence, slowly creeping forward towards the — for all intents and purposes — abandoned base camp. He dearly hoped this was just his imagination, and that Meteor and Earthshaker had maybe gone out patrolling, somehow scaring off the local wildlife.

But he wasn't about to imagine being so lucky.

With simple hand gestures, he sent King, Buchanan, and Liam to check out one of the tents, while he, Bear, and Alice checked the other. Petrovsky, for his part, would hang back, keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings. If anyone could sniff out trouble, it would be him, after all.

Ford swallowed instinctively as he c rept closer to the tent and made a grab for the closed flap. Based on the emblem emblazoned on the side, this was a standard-issue Military Mage tent. Not as expanded and luxurious on the inside as civilian tents, but large enough that it wouldn't feel as cramped as a non-magic tent. Not that anyone serving outside the Military Mages would know, of course. Not a single other branch of the service used them.

Too much comfort would just dull their instincts.

With glance back at his teammates, he nodded at them once, took a step to the side, and forcefully pulled the flap open, giving his teammates a clear line of fire to whomever was inside.

No one.

"_Clear_."

"_Clear._"

Ford let out a breath of relief he'd been unconsciously holding in. The last thing he wanted was to find Meteor lying bloody in her bedroll. Or Earthshaker.

"_Clear over here, too._"

Ford turned his attention to the other team, who waved an all clear signal at him. That was strange. If neither Meteor nor Earthshaker were deceased, then where were they? The camp showed no signs of combat, and their surroundings remained deathly silent.

What the hell was going on?

"_What the fuck is going on?_" King parroted his mental query as he and his team approached. "_Where the hell is everyone?_"

"Buggered if I know," Ford admitted, turning his head every which way, hoping his HUD would pick up on something. "Spectre, any tracks?"

Petrovsky's icon blinked red. None, then.

"_Might as well call this in, boss,_" Liam opined, also sweeping the miniature clearing with his rifle, still tense and on alert.

Ford nodded and tapped the side of his helmet, switching from local radio to long-range. Another fun feature. "Castle Base, Castle Base, this is GUARDIAN-SIX," he spoke firmly, no trace of his nerves or tenseness melting through. "We have reached base camp, but no sign of METEOR or EARTHSHAKER. Please advise."

He paused, waiting for an answer. Strangely, all he got was static. Frowning, he tried again, repeating himself word for word. Again, static. He quickly switched back to TEAMCOM.

"Liam, try calling up HQ," he ordered, his instincts once again blaring alarms at him. His friend cocked his head slightly to the side, then shrugged and repeated his gesture, switching frequencies via the side of his helmet.

Moments later, he saw his friend switch back to TEAMCOM, his body language even more tense than before. Seeing that, he didn't need his friend to report his findings — he already knew.

"_Nothing but static._"

"We're being jammed." Ford concluded immediately. There was no other explanation that jumped to mind at the moment. Maybe if he'd had a moment to think things through, he might have deduced differently, but the combination of an empty base camp, missing allies, and the fact that HQ was now out of their reach meant that only one safe conclusion could be drawn.

They were in an enemy trap.

"Eyes up!" he barked. And just in time, too, as his comms picked up the tell-tale whistle of a bullet whizzing right past his helmet, boring a hole in the trunk next to Alice's head.

"_Holy fuck!_"

"CONTACT!" he roared over Alice's shout of surprise. Bringing his rifle to bear, he ran over to a nearby root and dove behind it for cover, just as another three bullet holes formed where he'd been standing. Similarly, the rest of Guardian had scattered as the ambush pretty much fucked over their rehearsed formations.

He swore. Every time he glanced over the root, he was unable to make out where the enemy troops were. His built-in helmet HUD was no help, for once, either; the damn thing insisted that the bullets seemed to be from the same gun, yet fired from three different — and might he point out — _impossible_ locations.

"_What the fuck was that?!_" King shouted in indignation as Ford spied the younger man trying to make himself as small as physically possible.

"_Anyone got eyes on them?!_"

"_Fuck no! Fucking coward!_"

"_Anyone hit?!_"

Ford swore again — it seemed to become a habit for him these days. Guardian had lost its cool, and he couldn't blame them. They were used to conventional ambushes, but whoever had tried to get the drop on them had somehow managed to glitch out their HUDs and had nearly killed them, all the while remaining firmly out of sight.

"Stow the chatter, lads," he snapped as he pondered rebooting his HUD. He knew how to, of course — everyone did — but it was usually heavily advised that they never try doing so in the middle of a combat operation. Unless shutting off the program was the only way to reacquire visibility.

"I need eyes on the bogeys," he stated. "Spectre, got anything?"

Petrovsky's icon blinked red.

"Fuck," Ford cursed. "Alright, lads, we need to regroup and —"

Whatever else they had to do, he didn't have a chance to say it, as he felt an amazingly painful sensation stab into his left shoulder. So powerful was the impact, in fact, that he felt his body snap to the left and spin into the root painfully, his helmet and armor thankfully taking on the brunt of the pain.

Still, one thing remained firmly in mind.

He'd just been shot.

Fortunately, his armor had held strong against the bullet, but that didn't mean it hadn't hurt like a _bitch_!

"_Holy fuck, I think they got Sarge!_"

"_John! John! Answer me, damnit!_"

Ford grimaced as he tried to move his shoulder, feeling it flare up with every micro movement. Holy shite, that had hurt. More than it should have, too, given that SSI armor was built to absorb virtually all conventional caliber ammunition.

Meaning he'd just got hit by something a lot more powerful.

"I'm alive!" he spat into his comm, unwilling to let his team get out into the line of fire just to help him. "Stay where you are! Spectre, find me that fucker!"

A green icon blink answered him. At least _someone_ was keeping professional about this!

"Everyone, keep your eyes up. Whoever this wanker is, he's moving around pretty fast, and getting in our blind spots!"

As if to punctuate that statement, piece of wood blew past his helmet as another bullet impacted against his root cover. Again, the angle of that shot should've been impossible. What the _fuck_ was going on here?!

"_Who the hell is this guy?!_" King demanded. "_Or guys! Or, fuck, I don't know! Germans?!_"

Clearly, King's thinking process had undergone some decay, as he was barely making any sense anymore. A mix of adrenaline and his own lack of sophisticated education, no doubt.

"_No way the Krauts are this dumb!_" Liam spoke up, just as Ford watched him duck instinctively as a bullet smacked against his cover. "_This'd be war!_"

"_Tell __**them**__ that!_" Buchanan snapped. Then, in a fit of anger, she obviously activated her external speakers, because Ford didn't need no comms to hear her rather impressive swearfest against their attackers.

Fortunately, Bergstein was on hand, and quickly pulled Buchanan back into cover just as three rounds whizzed past where she'd been standing.

"_Boss! How's the arm?!_"

Ford grimaced as he felt his shoulder flare up with pain. "Still sucks something awful, Doc," he admitted.

"_Any penetration?_" the team medic followed up. There was no way to safely reach him at the moment, so an indirect diagnosis was the best way to go.

"None," he confirmed as he slid his fingers over the impact zone. A heck of a dent, sure, but no penetration.

"_Use the local tranq, then_" Alice ordered. "_A fifth of a dose!_"

Ford nodded to himself and called up the Em ergency Treatmen t Protocol on his HUD — an addition they'd asked after that near-miss with Bear, which had frankly taken way too long to develop. Using his eyes to navigate the treatment options once Alice had granted him administration privileges — ah, the joys of TEAMNET— he quickly administered the dose and felt his bruised shoulder wash over with relief.

"Thanks, Doc," he told Alice as he hefted his rifle again and checked the blackened skies above him. It wasn't even night yet, but the super-dense tree cover pretty much blocked out all light.

His night vision device certainly didn't help alleviate the atmospheric creepiness of their situation. In fact, seeing everything in that black-and-sickly-green color spectrum pretty much assured Ford he was living through some half-assed horror movie. Even so, he had no choice but to rely on the system, as it was far too dark for their eyes to work.

And then, a flash.

It happened so fast, Ford wasn't sure if he'd just imagined it. At least, not until he saw it again. And again.

It was up there, zipping amongst the trees almost too quickly to follow.

But what on earth could do that? Mages wouldn't need to, they could just Apparate. Normals like him couldn't either — not at that speed. And there wasn't an animal or magical creature he knew of with the speed, dexterity, _and_ rational capacity to use a firearm so skillfully while moving at such speeds.

So what the hell was going on?!

Well, one way to find out.

"Spectre," he called up his marksman. "Up high. Moving amongst the trees."

The marksman's readiness icon blinked once in acknowledgement, and Ford settled in next to the roots. He flinched as he saw two more rounds carve into the roots, spraying him a bit with wood chips.

A flat shot rang out then, and Ford recognized it immediately — Petrovsky's rifle. His was the only weapon in the team that hadn't been replaced with a MAC rifle. And, true to form, Ford's auditory sensors picked up a faint, pained yelp from up above.

He ignored his team's cheering, however, as he made his helmet's screen zoom in to the darkened thicket above. If they'd hit someone, there'd be proof of it. Something.

"Stow the chatter, lads," he ordered curtly, bringing the cheering to full stop. "Check the ground for blood. We need to find whoever that was and get some answers!"

Without further need for encouragement, the SSI troopers got out from cover — cautiously, of course; who knew how many of the enemy were actually around? — and began searching for any signs of their wounded enemy.

Fortunately, it seemed to have been just the one, as no one else opened fire on them. Which was kind of scary to begin with, because it meant that a _single_ person had made a highly trained, fully armored SSI Fireteam _cower_.

And they _still_ hadn't found Meteor or Earthshaker!

"_Found blood._"

As expected, Petrovsky found their assailant's trail quicker than the rest of them. As the rest of the Fireteam moved in, they saw the marksman look upwards through a detached scope. "Talk to us, Spectre," Ford ordered.

"_Single bogey._" Petrovsky stated monotonously. "_Attached to wires. Still alive._"

"Still armed?" Ford followed up as he looked up and zoomed in his camera, trying to spot their enemy.

"_Negative._"

_Some_ good news, at least. "Snap. King. Find me that weapon." He didn't want the two least emotionally stable persons on his team to decide to carve out their pound of flesh from their wounded enemy. There wasn't much of a chance for that, but one never knew, especially if their soon-to-be-captive had a foul mouth on him/her. "Bear, Doc, Liam. Set up a perimeter."

"How high up?" he asked Petrovsky then, absently noting the green blinks from his team.

"_Thirty meters._"

Ford grimaced. That was pretty damn high up. And the trees were too smooth for easy climbing. Pity they hadn't brought along their scaling equipment... "Any ideas how to get him down?"

"_Two._"

Ford chuckled. He could guess at least one of them. "Any that don't involve shooting him free of the one thing keeping him from a thirty meter dive?"

"_...One._"

Thought so.

"Need anything in particular?" he asked.

"_Knife_."

Without another word, Ford unsheathed his combat knife and tossed it to his teammate, who caught it effortlessly before slinging his rifle onto his back and unsheathing his own knife. Ford chuckled. Only Petrovsky would be crazy enough to do this.

Sure enough, he watched as Petrovsky took a few steps back — still in full combat gear — and took off sprinting at the trunk, getting one, two, three feet up the trunk before he stabbed deep with his first knife. Then the second, a little higher up. Then he pulled out the first and stabbed it a bit higher.

And so forth.

"Head's up, lads and lasses," Ford announced over comms as he watched Petrovsky pull himself higher and higher on the trunk. "Spectre is going vertical."

Five green lights blinked in acknowledgement.

Ford chuckled to himself as he watched his teammate ascend higher and higher. To the Slavic man's credit, he hadn't made a single grunt of exertion since his upward trek had begun. Or, more likely, he'd turned off his transmitter to avoid broadcasting his grunts.

Still, it was pretty impressive how he was just pulling himself upwards decked in full gear without slowing down even just a little. One of the benefits of Project HAVOC, he guessed. Though it seemed somewhat unfair that Petrovsky got both resilience _and_ sharp eyesight. All Ford had to brag about was stamina and a quicker mind.

Okay, so maybe the former had come in handy on a few...extra-curricular activities. Still!

"_Head's up. I've got movement up high._"

Liam's voice broke through Ford's unnecessary thoughts. The SSI Sergeant immediately went back into combat mode as he raised his rifle cautiously and eyed the pitch black canopy above. His NVD was working well, but the dense overhead foliage, and poor lighting still made distinguishing things smaller than the trees almost impossible.

Not exactly the best moment to realize they really should've pushed for thermal imaging or infrared sensors instead.

"I've got nothing," he said.

"_Me neither._" King joined in. "_You sure, Mac?_"

"_Positive. I saw something move towards us up high._"

"_No visual._" Alice piped up.

"_Geez, Mac. Lay off the juice, will ya?_"

"_I know what I saw, Snap. Whatever that was, it's still out there._"

"_Fuck, man, don't joke around. This place is bloody creepy as it is._"

Ford shook his head and turned his attention back to Petrovsky, who was still silently making his way up the tree. To the man's credit, he'd managed to pull himself up another five meters while his team had fretted about.

"Any visual on our would-be attacker, Spectre?" he asked.

A green icon blink.

"Alive or dead?"

"_Breathing._"

Ford nodded and turned about to make visual contact with the rest of the team. "Alright, get him down here and—"

The trunk behind him exploded.

"_CONTACT!_"

All around him, he heard the team's MAC rifles blaze alight as they fired up towards the tree canopy overhead. He wasted no time in joining his teammates, but also quickly assessed their situation.

"Bear, make some cover!" he barked as as he moved back towards the tree that Petrovsky was scaling. "Fireteam Guardian, on me! Spectre, we've got incoming!"

Green blinks all around. In a split second, the entire team was moving back to him, with the exception of Petrovsky, who'd been caught out in the open. Moving with precision, Fireteam Guardian rallied in near proximity to their teammate's tree, laying down effective suppression fire in the direction of their unseen foes.

Or, they would have, if not for the fact that just as suddenly as the attack had come, the direction of the shots changed too.

"Rotate!" Ford barked immediately, as he noticed that the enemy fire was coming in from the left now. "Left flank!"

He heard King curse as a bullet struck him in the chestplate, stinging him but otherwise unharmed. Thank goodness for SSI armor.

"_Where the fuck are they?!_" Buchanan demanded as she lay waste to entire sections of the overhead foliage with her LMC. "_I ain't dinging jack shite_!"

"Doc, send up a flare!" Ford ordered. "NVD's off on her mark!"

"_Mark!_"

Immediately, Ford turned off his night vision and squinted as the entire forest sector was suddenly awash with a bright light. His audio sensors managed to identify a few gasps of surprise — the enemy, no doubt — and he quickly turned in that direction and opened fire.

Raising his hand, he pointed towards the source of the voices. "Redirect fire!" he ordered.

Smoothly, the entire team, minus Petrovsky, rotated to meet the enemy in combat once more, tearing apart chunks from the tree trunks up above. For a while, Ford was sure they were winning, able to repulse whatever unseen enemy was mocking them with their potshots.

And then he heard the sound of metal shearing, followed by a dull thud behind him.

Turning around, his eyes widened in horror as he saw Petrovsky lying on the ground, immobile, his marksman's rifle sliced neatly in two and a large gash along his now-bare back.

"MAN DOWN!" he yelled, quick on the uptake. Looking directly up, he fired a few shots in the air, hoping to take down his teammate's aggressor. Nothing.

"_Holy shite, they got Spectre!_" King exclaimed.

"_FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKERS!_" Buchanan roared as she tore apart another decent chunk of the forest with her LMC.

"_Oh shite, oh shite, oh shite…_" he heard Alice mumbling into her comm. "_Bear! I need you to help me get Spectre out of the line of fire!_"

With no more words needed to be said, the hulking trooper slid into position next to Alice and gingerly lifted his Slavic teammate in a princess cradle. Within moments, both troopers were out of the line of fire.

Ford grimaced. His enemy had taken out the team's sharpshooter — so far the only person who'd been able to at least injure one of their unseen attackers. If he didn't find a way to turn the tables, his team was going to get butchered.

This realization, however, was quickly replaced with confusion as the enemy fire lessened, until it fully stopped. That, in itself, was perhaps more terrifying to Ford. If the enemy ceased fire, there was no way to track them.

"Stay on alert!" he ordered his team as he kept his rifle raised and scanned the area, switching on his NVD once again as the flare died out. "NVD's on!"

He twitched ever so slightly as his audio receivers picked up something distant. It sounded almost like a wire being reeled in. As he thought back, he was reminded that Petrovsky had mentioned that the person they'd managed to wound was suspended on wires, too.

"_Sir, Spectre's in bad shape,_" Alice reported in then. "_We need to get him out of here quickly, but the Portkeys are down._"

Figures. Ford desperately wanted to spit in anger now, but refrained from fouling up his visor. "Find out how far the wards go, then you and Bergstein make a break for it." he ordered.

"_And you, sarge?_" Alice asked concernedly.

He narrowed his eyes as a figure emerged from behind one of the giant trees, walking slowly and deliberately towards him. They were still too far to make out any distinguishing characteristics. "I'm going to get us some answers."

* * *

_**Liverpool, Kingdom of the Northern Sun, February 15, 2019…**_

While Ford and his team were stuck fighting an unseen foe along the Franco-German border, Hughes watched quietly as the interactive map that pretty much occupied the entire wall of his stage/office lit up with red dots all along the Northern Sun's South-Eastern borders.

"Sir, we've got reports of skirmishes along our border with the Northern Alpine Republic," an aide informed him unnecessarily. Hughes nodded absently as he watched the dots grow in frequency and amount.

"In addition," the aide ploughed on, "our spies in the Sicilian Republic have informed us that a fleet of warships has departed out of schedule from Palermo and Catatania. Destination uncertain, however SIS has estimated that they are likely headed for—"

"Marseilles," Hughes finished calmly. Of course they were. The Northern Sun had lost the city to the rebels, and the city's major ports would allow for an easy invasion, especially if the rebels cooperated with the Sicilians and NAR.

Which they obviously were.

The timing on the whole thing was pretty much perfect. While the Northern Sun fought the French insurgency at Montpellier, the South-Eastern border region was effectively undefended, but for a handful of troops. If pressed by rebels on one side and the NAR on the other, their border defences would collapse quite easily.

Then, from the sea, the Sicilian Republic would land its troops and aid the rebels take Montpellier and effectively cripple the Northern Sun's military readiness in its south-eastern regions. It would be weeks before the Northern Sun would be able to muster a large enough force to dislodge the then-entrenched enemy troops from the region and retake Marseilles.

And all the while, the Germans would have free reign over Austria, and the border regions.

"What about Austria?" he asked.

The aide frowned as he accessed the report on his tablet. "As expected, German forces have crossed into Austria. The media is widely condemning the attack, but due to the Austrian withdrawal from the ETO, most political commentators have agreed that intervening at this moment would be madness."

A sentiment not shared by the other ETO governments, who were no doubt already pushing Warwick up the wall with requests to intervene. And, knowing the Prime Minister, the man was probably itching to declare the Northern Sun's support for Austria, but political expediency and the larger picture held him back.

Strangely, however, the Queen had yet to speak up regarding the event. Not even at court. Then again, it was likely she had deduced part of his plan, based on her latest projects.

The King, for his part, had merely looked at him with a knowing smirk before leaving it to him. Somehow, he had a feeling his monarch knew exactly what he was plotting, despite having made sure that as little information got out as possible.

It spoke well of the King and Queen's intelligence. Or of the King's spies' abilities.

"Sir!" another aide ran up, looking a little troubled. "We've lost contact with Fireteam Guardian in the Great Forest!"

Hughes nodded quietly as he watched the new dot materialize on his screen. This just meant the Germans were beginning to probe their defenses. As he'd expected.

As he'd planned.

Hughes cupped his chin and drew his eyes to every dot on the interactive map, taking them in. All this time. All this patience. For just one moment.

"Initiate Operation Gaugamela."

The moment when all the Northern Sun's problems were lumped together to be dealt with at last.

With one savage strike.

* * *

_**Northern-German Border, February 15, 2019…**_

"Stop where you are." Ford ordered firmly, his external speakers activated and his rifle raised and ready to put a round straight through his attacker's left eye at a moment's notice. "Identify yourself."

From the corner of his eye, he saw the rest of Fireteam Guardian level their weapons at the unknown foe. The man — that much was certain, by his features and build — seemed unconcerned, however. He merely lifted his hand in the familiar gesture to hold back.

Likely preventing his comrades from opening fire once again.

"First Sergeant John Ford?" the man asked, a clear German accent in his speech.

Ford narrowed his eyes, silently thanking the geeks back at R&D for making the visors polarized, to avoid having the enemy read their facial expressions. "Identify yourself," he repeated. He wasn't about to confirm or deny anything to the asshole who shot one of his men.

The hypocrisy of that sentiment never once occurred to him.

"It appears so," his foe answered nonetheless. "I have something of yours, it would appear."

The man raised his hand again and made a gesture. Pure curiosity alone saved him from Ford firing a round into his face. To Ford's surprise, another figure appeared from behind the same gigantic tree his foe had made his own entrance from. Followed by another, easily recognizable person.

Meteor.

Ford felt his stomach plummet as he noticed that Meteor was in bad shape. Her hair was matted and grimy with dirt and mud, and she was trussed up in tight ropes, with her hands firmly sealed in a pillock he recognized as magic-restraining cuffs. The older, more barbaric model. A faded streak of blood went from her lip to her chin.

"Release Lieutenant Meteor at once." he ordered steadily. He wasn't about to let his emotions take over now, and he was glad to see that his team had managed similar restraint. Though, judging by Buchanan's body language, that was a tenuous state, at best.

"I intend to," the man said, taking custody of Meteor while his companion retreated back behind the tree. Again, Ford heard the distinct sound of wires being reeled. "But not out of the goodness of my heart, _mein herr_. A trade."

Ford glared behind his visor. He'd much rather stick the man with his combat knife. Which, he unnecessarily recalled, was either in Petrovsky's hands still, or stuck up on the tree.

"_Trade? How about I fucking gut you, you filthy piece of Kraut shite!_" Buchanan swore via TEAMCOM, making sure not to use her external speakers and ruin whatever strange lull had occurred between the two forces.

"_Let me take the shot, sarge. I'll drill another eye socket in his fucking head!_" King added in.

"_Shut it, both of you._" Liam snapped, stopping both hotheads from escalating things any further. "_Sarge's busy._"

Ford would've nodded at Liam if the situation wasn't so tense. The last thing he needed was the two most emotional characters in his unit to fly off the handle and egg him on. Especially as his own calm was rather severely damaged at the sight of Meteor in such a state.

Which also begged the question: where was Earthshaker?

"Lieutenant Meteor had a companion. Where is he?" he asked.

A simple look at Meteor's face told him enough. Earthshaker was dead. The short sob she emitted thereafter merely confirmed it.

To the German man's credit, however, he didn't appear smug or anything similar. If anything, he dipped his head in apology. "I'm afraid our altercation with him resulted in a poor ending," he admitted.

Ford ground his teeth. Earthshaker had been a friend, despite his higher rank. He had taken the time to get to know Guardian's members, and had occasionally shared a drink with them after a hard mission. He knew Meteor, in particular, had thought the world of the Anglo-Spanish War veteran.

"What's the trade?" he asked, focusing on the fact that he could save Meteor here, now. Earthshaker was beyond his help, but his protegé wasn't. Giving into the anguished fury of losing a friend would cause him to lose another.

"You managed to hurt one of my men," the German man said simply, nodding upwards towards the tree Petrovsky had been climbing. "While I managed to prevent your man from reaching him, I still need to retrieve him."

"So do it," Ford challenged, a little bit of anger managing to filter in, despite himself.

The German man didn't call him out on it, however. Remaining stoic, he merely shrugged. "I cannot whilst you defend the tree with such vigor, _herr _Sergeant."

"And in return for letting you take him back?" Ford asked, rallying his self-control.

"We return the _fraulein_ here, and retire from this engagement," the German man answered. "It's a good deal," he then added.

Ford agreed, but wasn't about to say as much. It took immense self-restraint not to open fire on the man and rid the world of Earthshaker's murderer.

"Your man was injured was he not?" the man spoke up again, then. Ford again glared behind the polarized visor. "I will add in another perk. Let us retrieve our comrade, and we will also take down the wards that keep you here."

So, on top of everything, these were the ones who'd established the Anti-Portkey/Apparation trap. And yet he'd seen not one ounce of magic. In a frightening way, this man and his team of unseen warriors reminded him eerily of the SSI.

Yet, unlike Ford and his team, the man wore no visible armor. A light brown jacket. A white shirt underneath. Nondescript white pants and knee-high boots. Frankly, the only thing that marked the man as a warrior of any kind was his body language and the strange apparatus at his waist.

Even so…

"Doc, what's the situation with Spectre?" he asked via TEAMCOM.

"_...He's lost a lot of blood, sarge,_" Alice admitted. "_He needs to be MEDEVAC'ed quickly._"

No choice, then.

"Agreed." he said tightly, lowering his rifle just an inch. If he was getting backstabbed, he wanted to be able to kill the fucker as quickly as possible.

"A wise choice, Sergeant," the man praised him, before looking up at the pitch-black canopy and nodding. "_Tu es!_"

Ford glanced up, keeping his head stable, as he again heard the sound of wires being reeled in. Unfortunately, whoever it was remained out of sight. Soon after, he heard the sound again, and saw the German man's shoulders droop with relief.

"Thank you for keeping your word, _herr _Sergeant," he thanked Ford before pushing Meteor forward. "As promised, the _fraulein_ goes free. The wards will be down in five minutes. I give you my word."

Ford was tempted to rush in and punch the daylights out of him, but refrained from doing so, waiting until Meteor got close enough for him for Liam to move up lead her back behind the tree, where Alice could take a look at her.

"You keep having me at a disadvantage," Ford spoke up as the German man turned to leave. "You seem to know who I am, but I don't know you."

The man chuckled, stopping in his tracks. He glanced over his shoulder and smiled. "The reputation of the Northern Sun's intrepid commando precedes him all over Europe, _mein herr_," he said. "You may call me Erwin."

He waved over his shoulder then, leisurely walking back behind the cover of his own tree. "As for who we are…"

He soon went out of view, but Ford heard his words clear as day.

_Wir sind die Jäger._

* * *

_Post-AN: Well, here's hoping the next chapter won't take as long as this one to pump out. Fingers crossed!_

_If anyone was wondering (or just doesn't want to go through the trouble of firing up Google Translate), that last sentence means: We are the Hunters/Jäger_

_As always, please read and review!_


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